


More than flesh and bones

by s_a_b_i_n_e



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Cis writer, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, FTM, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff & Angst, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Misgendering, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Castiel, Other, Re-Transition, Supportive Bobby Singer, Supportive Castiel, Supportive Sam Winchester, This is so much more fluffy than it sounds, Thoughts of Suicide (non-explicit), Trans Dean Winchester, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Dean Winchester, deadnaming, self hate, very loose use of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 29,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29240007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_a_b_i_n_e/pseuds/s_a_b_i_n_e
Summary: When Castiel raises Dean from hell and rebuilds him after the plans he received from heaven, Dean not only wakes up buried alive but also in a body he thought to have left behind many years ago.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor Anna/Dean
Comments: 138
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first big story I write in the SPN universe. I hope you like it. 💚💙
> 
> Full disclaimer: I am a cis woman. I tried to learn a lot from my trans friend, through reading articles, watching YouTube, and such. If you find anything factually wrong or hurtful in my writing, please point it out in the comments and I promise to educate myself further and rework the part in question. By no means I want to put out wrong information or hurt trans folks with my writing. 🏳️⚧️
> 
> Thank you to the lovely Satyana who agreed to be my beta on this journey. You rock! 💜
> 
> Obviously, I neither own Supernatural nor the characters.

Total darkness surrounds him as if the earth had swallowed him whole. He coughs, his throat feeling dry as hell, burning with every breath he tries to take.

He feels hard, yet damp wood underneath him. The air smells rotten and stale and Dean can't breathe properly as if the amount of oxygen is running out.

 _Don't panic!_ he tells himself, refraining from taking a deep breath even though it might steady his heartbeat.

He pats down at the pocket of his jeans. _Thank, God!_ No matter what happened to him, the lighter that his brother Sammy gave him for his 16th birthday is still there.

He fumbles at his jeans, willing his stiff hands into cooperation until he can finally fish out the silver lighter and with fingers that feel as if they weren't his, he runs his thumb several times over the little metal wheel unsuccessfully until - finally - a little flame lightens up the space around him.

It casts more shadows than light, distorting what he knows to be his body into long-forgotten wraiths. But there's no use in processing this cruel game his brain is playing with him.

The space around him is confined, planks of wood on top of him and to every side. He tries to call for help, but his voice betrays him, coming out squeaky and parched. It doesn't seem to belong to him. He coughs once more and his next attempt works better, at least it is louder, but his voice still sounds so much higher than usual. 

Anger flares up in his chest or maybe it's just the air pinching his lungs. He bangs at the planks above him and feels soil raining down on him, sprinkling his face.

He's buried alive! What sick son of a bitch would do that to him? Sure, he has enemies from all over the country, human and supernatural beings alike, but even for most of them this sick game would be a notch too much.

With all strength that he can muster, he pulls at the brittle wood and tears it apart until the hole above him is big enough to shovel his way out of what he realises is supposed to be his grave.

He doesn't know how long it takes, he doesn't know if he's still alive or already breathing soil. He keeps on digging upwards, driven by instinct and the sheer will to survive, to kill the bastard that thought killing him like this was what he deserved.

Finally! He feels the soil getting looser, more dry, and then - sweet mother of Jesus and all the angels who witnessed his birth - he feels grass under his fingertips and his right hand reaches into the fresh air for the first time again.

He presses his other hand out, widening the hole in the ground above him and with more will than bodily strength he pushes his chest out in the open, taking in a big breath of air. He coughs due to the new sensation of filled alveoli, burning inside him like the fires from hell.

His head is a little dizzy but he still keeps on crawling, shoving, pulling, until his whole body finds solid ground and the sun slowly caresses his cold cheek.

He turns on his back and closes his eyes. _It's fine. I'm fine. I'm safe._ The last one feels like a lie, but Dean doesn't know why. He's too exhausted to think about it.

He gulps and groans and looks into the blinding sun standing high on a cloudless blue sky.

He lies there, maybe for minutes, maybe hours. His throat still feels like lined with parchment paper. He needs water. It's way too hot. He will die of thirst if he doesn't move and for a short moment, he entertains the thought of just staying like this until his heart stops beating.

But then he thinks of Sammy who is surely looking for him. He imagines his grief laced face finding him after he fought so hard to get out of this hole, imagines him erecting the funeral pyre, cloaking him in a white sheet, and burning him all alone, here, God knows where.

No, he can't let that happen!

So he pushes himself off the ground and gets up on slightly wobbly legs, taking in his surroundings. There is an improvised wooden cross on what should have been his eternal resting place and fallen trees encircling the little grassy patch that may have been a small clearance once.

The trees lie disrooted on the ground, but it's clear that they weren't the victims of a normal storm. It looks as if a nuke took off, as if something inside the clearance exploded and took the trees down.

Dean tries to make sense of it and for a long moment, he just stares and breathes, before willing his eyes to look for signs of civilisation. He thinks he finds them in the far distance, something red catching his attention.

With his eyes still fixed on the red object, too afraid to lose sight of it and hoping that it isn't just a thirst induced Fata Morgana, he shrugs out of his long-sleeved shirt and binds it over his teeshirt, around his waist. He takes a first step, still a little wobbly on his feet, then the next, and the next, until his legs remember how to work. His whole body feels foreign, but he keeps on moving until he reaches the red objects he hung his life on.

They turn out to be old fashioned pumps at a dated petrol station. The sign says "closed", still he knocks and calls, "Hello!" His voice is still not recovered from whatever the arsehole who buried him alive did to him.

There is no answer and he unknots his shirt around his waist and uses it to protect his hand while breaking the glass door to get inside the little shop.

He thanks whoever might listen that the shop seems to still be in use as he finds a fridge with bottles of water.

He downs half of one, the burning in his throat now nearly worse than before. He takes another painful breath then looks around.

He knows he's in the back of beyond, but where exactly? He sees a stack of newspaper and grabs one. He's not surprised to find himself in Michigan, but he blinks twice when he sees the date on the Pontiac Daily Gazette. It's September 2008.

This can't be right! He lost four months on earth. Maybe he should just be thankful that his decades in hell didn't pass here, too. Coming back to a world where people like his uncle Bobby might not live anymore - not due to a hunting accident, but because of old age - would be so much worse.

His skin burns like fire, but not from the burn of the sun. He needs to get his shit together. There's no use in focussing on details like this. He needs to find Sam and get the hell out of here.

He walks to the old washbasin to cool his boiling cheeks. Together with the cold water a bit of the built-up tension goes down the drain.

He pats his shirt to his face, drying it, and that's when it hits him. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

All this time ever since he woke up in this cursed makeshift coffin, the foreign feeling that never quite left him even when his body cooperated with his brain again, with one look in the mirror it suddenly all makes sense.

His lips form a silent "no" as he sees his reflection in the mirror. His features, though distorted in horror, are soft and void of facial hair. His hairline is lower, too. _What the actual fuck!?_

In disbelief his gaze wanders down his reflection, finding soft hills where a flat chest should be. He breathes in sharply before raising his shirt tentatively. Where he is used to finding strong muscles he finds a soft belly framed by wide hips and a slender waist. Where he sported two thin, red scars he's met with two breasts that used to be the biggest trigger of dysphoria until the wonderful day when he had finally gotten rid of them with the credit card of an insanely rich businessman who had died after making a deal with a crossroad demon. It had been the happiest day of his life, well maybe after the day he had gotten his hand on the first tube of testosterone gel.

Dean presses a hand to his mouth, trying to keep the wail inside that breaks his way from deep down inside his stomach up to his throat, ripping him apart in the process. All his fighting, all the pain, all the things he did to make the body he was born with truly his.

He stares at himself in the mirror or more precisely the version of him that he thought to have left in the past, the one that he never really fit in, never filled out, the one that people knew by his grandmother's name.

His hand shoots to his crotch, but all he finds are loose briefs and he knows that not only his packer is gone, but also his cock. _Son of a bitch!_

Tears brim behind closed eyes, burning their way out until he can feel them on his smooth cheeks.

Alastair himself couldn't have been so cruel to send him back into his personal hell that is a body not fitting the soul within.

Dean braces himself on the washbasin. He takes one deep breath, then another, and another. He looks up in the mirror again, but all he sees is a slightly older 23-year-old version of himself and all hope drains out of him.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a burning sensation on his left arm, one that can't be explained away with any of the forms his body used to have and Dean diverts his eyes with great effort, tries his best to ignore the face in the mirror, and pushes the sleeve of his teeshirt up to his shoulder.

A handprint, looking like branded into his skin, shines angry red out from the mirror. Whoever did this to him definitely has a very strange kind of humour, or is possessive as fuck leaving a mark like this.

It doesn't matter. Not now. Not in a filling station in the middle of nowhere. 

His stomach rumbles and Dean fights his urge to ignore the clear sign of his body. There was a time when he tried to starve himself. No, not himself, but the threatening puberty with all its unwanted side effects. It ended in a hospital bed and his promise to Sammy to never, ever do this again. Even after all these years, his baby brother is still living rent-free inside his head.

Dean chomps down a chocolate bar and packs more with something to drink for his way to Sammy. He can't just sit around waiting for his little brother to pull up. Not just because the owner of the petrol station could come back any minute, but because Dean will for sure go crazy trying to avoid the mirror on the wall.

He looks through the other stuff the little shop has to offer and ends up in front of the magazine rack where his favourite porn magazine tempts him. But then he looks down at himself and the old, yet still familiar ball of anxiety, anger, and disgust forms in his stomach and his hand flinches back as if he touched a hot cooktop.

He turns around and fastens up his long-sleeved shirt as he used to do long ago before he suffered through the aftermath of his top surgery. It had been a risk to get it done. He could only stay one night, the risk to be caught too high to stay as long as the doctors had recommended. 

Aftercare was a mess and Bobby had to call an old friend who was a nurse to prevent the worst, but even with the complications, it had been so worth it.

Unbidden tears are burning in his eyes. Damn it! He can't turn into a crybaby now. He needs to focus, needs to call Sammy to pick him up.

He needs money for that, though. His eyes fall on the register. Dean usually isn't a thief, not that kind of thief at least. He doesn't take from ordinary people, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

He takes the little that he needs when suddenly the electronics around him go crazy. A television switches on, the static hissing white noise. He frowns at the telly and switches it off.

A radio starts playing a cowboy melody and the tv switches on again. Something is wrong, very wrong. Ghosts maybe? It's Dean's best guess at least. He grabs salt from the shelf and starts securing the door with it when the white noise morphs into a high pitched note.

The sound gets higher and more piercing. The windows start to vibrate and Dean, pressing his hands to his ears, bends forward just before they burst, the broken glass flying around him like bullets. Maybe God has mercy on him and directs one of them ...

 _No!_ , his brain screams at him, piercing even through the shock wave throwing him through the room and the noise that threatens to perforate his eardrums. It's bound to happen any second. Any second now and then ...

The world falls silent. There is only the whoosh of the wind through the burst windows, the scrunch of shards beneath his knees.

It takes Dean a moment to realise it's over, whatever **_it_** was. He raises from the ground. He needs to make the call, needs to get out of here.

He calls Sam's number, ingrained in his brain for eternity, but the voice tells him that the number is disconnected. _What the hell?! Where are you Sammy?_

Bobby's number he won't ever forget either, remembering it through hell and back, literally. Dean lets out a sigh of relief when his uncle picks up the phone. But of course, Bobby doesn't believe it's him. Why would he? Dean doesn't recognise his own voice. He tries again to no avail. Bobby won't trust him until he's standing right in front of him. _Damn it!_

Dean runs his hand over his face, willing back the treacherous tears. Of course, Bobby hangs up. He doesn't sound like himself anymore.

His eyes fall on a beat-up car. He presses his jaws together, biting through the remorse already rising in his throat like bile. But there is no use in having a guilty conscience. He did things that were much worse than hot-wiring the car of a stranger. He already paid for all his future sins in his 40 years in the pit. Or he earned even more there, who knows how that works. It doesn't matter. Not really. Hell is right here, right now.

He drives all the way to Bobby's house, only taking quick naps in between. He's too pent up, the classic rock radio not as relaxing as it used to be.

Thousands of questions run through his mind. Who brought him back? Why did they bury him alive? What was this strange noise?

Maybe Sam made a deal. Maybe someone pulled him out to torture him with his own being. Nothing makes sense. Why put him back into his old body? Why all the effort?

He knows that he was pulled to shreds by the hellhounds and tortured mercilessly in hell. They ripped him apart and then put him back together at the end of each day so that he could be torn apart all over again. Did they who brought him back didn't know what he really looked like? The demons sure did. Is his enemy someone from earlier, someone who only knew this body as a restore point?

His thoughts are turning in circles, every question opening up into another. Dean's head is short of exploding, but he sets his eyes on the open road and floors the accelerator, hoping that no police patrol will pull him out. He doesn't even have a fake ID on him, not that his old ones would be of any use now that he looks like a girl.

He shoves down the rising panic with another candy bar. He'll find whoever did this to him and then he will bring them down.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean raises his hand and takes a few steadying breaths before he dares to knock at the door.

Bobby opens it, only his eyes giving away the turmoil in his mind. Dean can't keep his mouth from twitching into a tiny smile at the sight. The man who has been more of a father to him than his own ever was is surely trying hard to make sense of the person standing in front of him. Dean doesn't blame him. He can't wrap his head around it either.

Dean chuckles softly, just once. "Surprise," he says through the heart in his mouth. It's one thing to come back from the dead, but looking like someone from the past? That's a whole different kind of crazy.

Bobby looks at him with wide eyes. "I ... I don't ...," he trails off.

"Yeah, me neither," Dean replies, taking a step over the threshold, "but here I am."

Dean makes a helpless gesture with his arms, a shoulder shrug spreading as far as his hands. He feels lost and at the same time, he's finally home, kind of.

Bobby and Sam were the only people who truly supported him in his transition. His father John had been indifferent at most. For him, nothing really changed. His firstborn had had short hair and a baggy wardrobe since he grew out of the clothes his mother Mary had bought before she died. John wasn't around enough to get used to the new name, always leaving behind several new cuts in Dean's soul for every dead naming he managed to squeeze in whenever he dropped by.

Bobby was the one who called him "son" and "my boy" first, gathered information, and faked prescriptions for him. Sam bought him his first packer (way too big and used as a weapon in a giggle-fest of slapping it into his oh-so straight brother's face) and a snug sports bra. Dean may have teased him about going to the lingerie department of a big box store, but Sammy for sure saw the tears in his eyes before he crushed him in a big brother bear hug. The memory still makes Dean smile.

Of course, Dean expects the silver knife in Bobby's hand and his uncle crowding him against the closest wall. The old man wouldn't just believe his own eyes. Too many creatures can put on other people's faces.

Dean raises his hands in a sign of appeasement as Bobby trails the sharp point of his knife slowly down his throat.

"Whatever sick database you're usin' to fake Dean Winchester, it hasn't been updated for quite some time. So. Who are you and what do you want?" Bobby shouts right into his ear that is still ringing with a tinnitus the size of a church bell from the crazy noise at the gas station.

"Bobby, I get that you don't trust me. I barely recognise myself. Feel free to cut my arm to check if I react to it."

Bobby knits his eyebrow together in thought, then makes short work of doing what the creature in front of him asked for. Nothing happens and Bobby tumbles back a few steps, eyes even wider than before.

"It's impossible. You're dead! And you're ..."

"I know," Dean says, smiling shyly, "Fucked up, right?"

He should have expected the holy water splattering into his eyes, too. He chuckles and brushes the wetness off his face. "Satisfied?" he laughs and his uncle nods, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. His beard scratches differently when he pulls Dean in for a hug.

All tension leaves the younger man's body and he slumps into the embrace, his face all tears and snot. He sobs and tries to draw in some air, but he feels like drowning, Bobby's arms the only thing keeping him from sinking.

"It's alright, son. We'll figure this out."

Dean nods and pulls back right after. Relishing in Bobby's pat on his shoulder, he brushes his sleeve over his face and clears his throat. That's enough chick flick nonsense for one day.

"Where's Sammy?" he asks, voice still wet and so disgustingly high that he feels like starting to cry all over again. All the progress, through training and taking T, is gone. He has to start all over again.

"He's gettin' groceries. Should be back in a few," Bobby says and walks to the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Yeah, could need some real food," Dean says and slumps down on one of the kitchen chairs. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, trying to ignore the softness underneath.

_Shit!_ He burnt his sports bras and binder after the surgery in a celebration of his new found freedom.

"Where is my duffle bag?" he asks seemingly apropos of nothing, hoping that they didn't throw away the few belongings he had.

"Up in your room." Bobby says it as if it were a childhood bedroom, untouched since the kid left for college, NSYNC poster on the wall, teddy bear on the quilt covered queen size bed, and shit like that.

Of course that isn't what Bobby is talking about. More often than not Dean and Sam just crush on Bobby's couch, but the spare room, repleted with a single bed, lores, and more ammunition than one could count is the closest to a room Dean has ever called his own. He was naked with a girl for the first time up there. He cuddled Sam after nightmares and read him bedtime stories in it, too.

Dean takes two steps at a time and pushes the door open. As promised, his bag lies on the windowsill. He rummages around in it, but only finds his spare packer. It doesn't give him the same good feeling like his favourite one, but it'll do for now. He lets out a sigh of relief when it settles down in his briefs. _So much better._

He shrugs out of his overshirt and grabs the opened tube of testosterone gel. He doesn't care if it's beyond its expiration date or not. He applies it on his upper arm a little clumsily as he isn't used to doing it with his left hand, but he won't touch this fucked up handprint. No way!

He sinks onto the bed, sighing a breath of relief. For a brief moment, he entertains the thought of binding with stuff from Bobby's first aid box but then opts for changing to a wide buttoned-up plaid shirt. He won't risk a broken rib when he might have to face the monster who did this to him.

"Bobby, I'm back," Sam's voice comes from downstairs. Dean waits until he hears Bobby's answering rumble.

"Don't faint, boy, there is a surprise visitor. I checked him thoroughly. Don't fret, okay?"

There is silence after that and Dean assumes that Sammy just nodded his reply as he so often does.

Slowly he walks down the stairs, feeling giddy like a teenager on prom night. He takes in how his brother's eyes grow wide, how his jaw drops, and a thunderstorm of emotions wreaks his face.

"Dean!"

It's all he manages to say before he pulls his long lost brother into his arms, nearly achieving what Dean planned to avoid by forgoing the ACE bandages.

"I can't breathe," Dean laughs, "let a man live, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replies in the all too familiar way and something inside Dean's chest klicks back into place.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, none of you made a deal. Which is ... good news, I guess. But what or who did pull me out of hell then?" Dean asks. He isn't sure what to make of the fact that Sam tried to save him, but stopped some time ago. One part of him is glad that his little brother didn't destroy himself trying to get him back. But then there's the other part of him that tells him that he was just not worth the hassle.

He brushes a hand over his face and tries to banish the dark thoughts. "Anythin' unusual happenin' 'round here or the area you ... buried me?" he asks and Sam shrugs his shoulders.

"There is more demon activity lately, but nothing I could pin it on," Bobby says.

Dean hums. "You think they came here to see what their demon overlord is up to playin' around with me?"

Bobby shrugs. "Possible."

Dean swallows hard. Whatever pulled him out of hell is powerful, more powerful than the usual crossroad demon. And they must have a plan with him. Why going through all the trouble if not for a good - most likely evil - reason? They need to find out who or what did this.

"We need help," Sam says matter-of-factly. The other men nod in agreement. 

"I know a psychic a few hours from here," Bobby says. "Somethin' this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."

Dean claps his hands on his thighs and gets up from his chair. "Hell, yeah, it's worth a shot."

"I'll be right back," Bobby says and leaves the brothers in the kitchen.

"Sammy," Dean says after clearing his throat, "can ya tell me where my favourite packer is?"

Sam frowns at him. "I buried you with it."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cusses. What an arsehole takes the time to put back the lighter, but not his packer? Or did it already get lost in hell? It's not as if he did feel anything else but pain and agony for the first thirty years in the pit, followed by numbing shame in the last decade. He hasn't felt his body or the clothes on his skin for quite some time now. He's still getting used to the sensation again.

"I gotta buy a new one ... and a binder," Dean sighs, already counting up the costs. For hunting, he needs a sports binder and the really good ones aren't cheap. Just like the packer. _Damn it!_

Sam looks at him with sad puppy eyes. Dean will never understand how a giant like him can look like that. "Is ... everything undone?"

Dean nods working his jaws. He feels the unease crawling underneath his skin that already feels two sizes too small.

"At least they left the haircut," he jokes half-heartedly.

"Let's get you a sports bra or two on the way," Sam proposes and Dean nods, studying his shoes with great interest.

"You probably want this back," Sam says and steps closer. Dean looks up at him and smiles when he sees what his brother just pulled over his head. It's the amulet he gifted Dean when he was eight years old. Dean wore it ever since that day, feeling nearly naked without it.

The thought that Sammy kept it as a reminder of him makes his heartache in the best way possible.

Dean gives Sam a soft smile. "Thanks."

"Yeah, don't mention it," Sam replies. Of course. Talking about their feelings has never been their forte. It's dangerous territory.

That's why Dean lies when Sam asks how his time in hell had been. Dean can't put that burden on him and he can't face the disgust in his brother's eyes when he learns that Dean is no better than all the monsters they hunted together. He is one of them now, someone who hurt others for no good reason, but selfishness.

If he gives in to the memory of what he did back there, he'll drown in guilt. Focus is important. His judgement day will come soon enough.

* * *

There was a time Dean might have been sceptical about involving a psychic in a hunt. But that was before meeting Missouri and now that he depends on one again - one who openly flirts with him especially - he is happy that he learnt to shut his mouth when really necessary at the young age of four.

He's still impertinent and cheeky. No one would say that Dean Winchester is coy or reticent. Far from it. But he learnt to bite away some of the bitchy retorts that are sitting on his tongue.

Like now when Pamela says she needed to touch something their mystery monster touched and grabs him high on his thigh. Usually, this would be the perfect moment to make an indecent innuendo, but Dean can't help it and twitches away. Maybe it's not the wisdom of old age, but his new, old body that makes him insecure. Dean hates it. This isn't him.

He offers the handprint branded into his skin, trying hard to hide the bra strap under his teeshirt.

Sam and Bobby share meaningful looks and Dean wishes this whole ordeal would just be over. He doesn't need to be ogled like one of those poor souls that used to be amusement attractions.

As if she senses Dean's tenseness - she's a psychic after all - Pamela lays her hand softly on the mark and starts the seance.

Only a few minutes later Dean wishes he would have looked at her more kindly as all she will remember is his grim face before her eyes burnt out as she asked to see the monster's true face.

Regret washes over him. Another life destroyed because of him. He's poison, always has been. He cut his little brother out of his one shot of happiness, to study, marry, and have the perfect apple pie life. He got more people killed than he dares to remember. He's full of shit and he knows it. And now, the fierce, cocky woman that he vied with Sammy for just minutes ago, is rushed to the hospital, with no hope to save her eyesight.

That they finally have a name to the arsehole who brought him back is only a scant comfort. But he will make him pay. For what he did to him and Pamela. Tonight, heads will roll. Or more precisely, one head. The head of someone called Castiel.


	5. Chapter 5

The inner walls of the barn are sprayed with traps and talismans from every faith of the globe. Bobby gives it the finishing touches while Sam and Dean go over the weapons one last time.

"This is a bad idea, Dean. A very, very bad idea," Sam murmurs.

"I heard you the first trillion times, Sammy. Do you have a better idea?" His brother shakes his head no. "Thought so."

Bobby takes off his cap and rubs the back of his hand over the sweat that collected like dew on his forehead. "That still doesn't make this a good idea, Dean," he mumbles.

Dean sighs. "We've got stakes, iron, silver, salt, _the_ knife. We're set to kill anythin' I ever heard of. Where is your sporting spirit?"

They all know that Dean is at least as scared as they are despite his cool demeanour, but neither of them calls him out on it. It's too late to turn back now anyway. 

Bobby starts the incantation, the Latin words falling easily from his lips. Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. How often has he used the same words before? How old was he when he spoke them first? He can't remember. Too young, that's for sure.

"We've got this," Sam says in a firm voice, patting his brother encouragingly on the back. Dean wonders when his baby brother learnt to lie like that. Did he teach him so well? Their lives are fucked up big time, Dean knows that, but it's little questions like these that make him want to smash things. Good that he'll have an outlet for his frustration in a matter of seconds.

It's Dean's favourite time - monster-killing season. Only the mission and focus. No thoughts, no past, no future. Just the present moment and anything else falls behind a curtain of irrelevance. It's his happy place, as fucked up as it may sound.

Bobby ends his litany and all three men sharpen their eyes and ears in concentration. But nothing happens. The barn lays silent in the night, the only things disturbing the peace are their own breaths and the quiet rustling of clothes.

They look at each other without a word, waiting for the others to call it a squib round. But no one dares. It would mean they failed. Dean in his pursuit to kick some ass, to get payback, Bobby and Sam in their attempt to save Dean from himself.

Because one thing everyone in this godforsaken barn knows: A failure won't end this mission. Dean wants revenge, _needs_ revenge. He may be saved from hell, but hellfire burns him from the inside out. There is no way he will let this slide, and who could blame him for that?

After a while Bobby settles down on a table, swings his legs, and whistles an unknown melody. Dean mirrors him, playing idly with Ruby's knife while Sam leans against the wall, studying the hem of his shirt intensely. The atmosphere is gloomy, resembling a scene from a cheap horror video. But none of them suggests taking down the beam securing the barn door. All of them know enough real monsters to think better of it.

The barn is safe, maybe the safest place in a 50 miles radius. Here they have the protections painted on the walls, light, and not a chance to lose each other. If you plan to have a showdown with an unknown enemy, it doesn't get better than this.

Time moves stickily slow like molasses and right when Dean is ready to call the whole thing off and break the silence, a wind whistles over the roof and raises the covering. The flapping of the corrugated sheets thuds loud and wild.

But it's not the only noise that makes shivers run down Dean's spine. It sounds as if a million birds were flailing their wings right above the barn in a singular attack. He never heard anything like that before and there aren't a lot of things Dean's ears haven't witnessed yet, barring beautiful things like ocean waves breaking at the shore.

This isn't a natural storm blowing a gale outside. This is focused force, a warning call, the great entrance of the big unknown.

The three men share looks, heavy with meaning, full of unuttered words that may never be spoken. It's the lull before the storm and Dean doesn't want to imagine the racket waiting for them if this is the calm.

Dean straightens himself to his full height, squares his shoulders, and pushes his chin forward. It might have lost its angularity, but that won't keep him from showing that beast that he has game and won't back off, no matter what they throw at him.

The lamps above them explode. Instinctively the men bend down, protecting themselves from the flying sparks and the shards of glass raining down on them. Maybe that's why they fail to notice that the beam securing the barn door breaks like a matchstick as if by an invisible hand, and the doors magically open.

It's the moonlight falling through the huge door, a sudden steady light source between all the sparklers that seem to go off around them that pulls their gazes to the manifestation slowly but steadily walking towards them.

It looks like a man, but the appearance doesn't fool any of them. The "man", dressed in a suit and a tan trenchcoat, carries himself with a superiority one cannot ignore. He exudes a cold calm that elicits goosebumps of warning on Dean's skin. Power comes off the creature in waves even though he does nothing more than walking and fixing his equally cold gaze on Dean. It's as if they were the only people in the room.

Despite himself Dean takes a step back. Usually, he would storm in headfirst into the battle, but the unknown monster closing the space between them feels foreign. _Old_ , Dean thinks, abandoning the thought immediately. It doesn't matter.

He grabs a gun and sees Sam and Bobby do the same out of the corner of his eye. They are loaded with different kind of munition. One of them will surely be effective on whatever this is.

The electricity raining sparks on the creature doesn't even make their eyes flinch. The body for sure isn't their own, but a possessed human. A mighty demon maybe, or perhaps just a stooge send by their overlord. Even if this one should turn out to be really powerful, it should be enough to weaken them by inflicting several wounds with Ruby's knife that is able to kill most demons and other demonic entities, even hellhounds.

In case that their guns won't work on that thing, Dean can't wait to drive it into the creature's flesh, to make them scream in agony and slump down on their dress pants covered knees, grovelling in front of him, begging for mercy.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean isn't sure who of them shoots first, but sure enough, it only takes a second until all three of them empty their magazines. The creature keeps on walking unfazed by the different kinds of bullets piercing through his body, leaving his clothes perforated by the projectiles.

Dean looks at Bobby in faint hope to see some epiphany on his face, but the experienced hunter looks at him in a confusion that mirrors Dean's own.

Dean turns to Sam who shrugs his shoulders, looking at him apologetically as if his big brother expected him to be smarter than he and his uncle together. Okay, maybe he did.

Still, the creature keeps on walking in Dean's direction, their human features bizarrely relaxed, eyes staring cold as steel and without blinking once. Dean holds his breath in response and spreads his arms, pushing the other men back until they reach the end of the barn. It only wins them time to coordinate the attack, but in a fight sometimes two seconds can make the difference between life and death.

Sam arms himself with a stake. With his height and strength, he is the one most likely able to drive it through the monster's heart. Bobby grabs a crowbar and Dean Ruby's knife.

Dean feels the blood rushing through his ears, the antler handle of his knife a welcome anchor in his hand, binding him fast in an ocean of thoughts and impressions. The creature is only a few steps away from him, still closing in.

"Who are you?" Dean demands with as much authority as he can muster.

The look on the creature's face would be nearly warm in any other circumstances, but with the noise and the fading lights floating around them, it is anything but reassuring. It makes them look even scarier up close.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," their low, rumbling voice crawls into Dean's ear. Even their baritone sounds otherworldly. Dean would chuckle about their choice of words if his whole body wouldn't be taut like a bow, ready to release its tension in one powerful blow.

"Yeah ... thanks for that," Dean says. The words, meant sarcastically, feel like pebbles in his mouth. The creature nods in acceptance of his gratitude and without so much as a conscious thought Dean drives the knife between their ribs, right into the heart.

There is no flinch of pain, no movement to get away from the impact. The monster just stands there and looks at Dean like he did from the second he trod into the barn.

Dean's face is a mixed bag of feelings - shock, horror, disbelief, and awe in its oldest meaning. The 'man' holds his gaze for a long moment before looking down at the knife sticking in their chest. A shadow of an amused smile flatters over their face before they raise their head again, looking like an owl assessing prey that presented itself to be eaten.

With one smooth movement they grab the knife and pull it out of their chest, leaving only a small spot of blood. The knife makes a clanking sound when it hits the ground after the creature just lets go of it as if it were a nuisance and not one of the most powerful weapons of the universe.

It's that very moment that Bobby chooses to attack, the quiet rustling of his clothes enough to warn the creature. They grab the crowbar that the hunter swings on them and slowly, with obvious ease, wrestles him back single-handedly before touching his head which results in Bobby sinking to the floor.

Sam attacks in an instant, loud and right in the face, probably to give Dean a chance to use the deflection for an attack of his own. But Dean is frozen to the spot, still processing what he just saw. He can't think!

The very next second Sam lies next to Bobby on the ground, the stake still loosely in his hand.

The creature turns around, face still soft as if they didn't just kill ... no, hopefully not killed, just sent to sleep ... the two most important people in Dean's life. The two people who warned him not to summon his 'saviour' in the first place.

"We need to talk, Deanna," the monster says, "Alone."

A hysterical laugh tries to work its way up to Dean's throat. "Talk? Are you friggin' kiddin' me? What have you done to them?" he shouts, ignoring the creature and kneeling next to his family. Both have strong heart rates. _Thank God!_ Dean lets out a breath of relief. "How long until they wake from their sleeping beauty slumber?"

The 'man' looks at him, their face scrunching up in confusion, the lines around their eyes tightening. It's the first real reaction that Dean sees playing out on their face. Then the frown disappears as if in understanding and they say, "They will sleep as long as we need them to."

What the hell is that supposed to mean!?

Dean assesses the situation. The creature didn't attack, they didn't react to their aggression in anger. They are standing at the table, skimming through the notes Bobby took in preparation for the summoning. They look nearly harmless as they focus on the words and signs, squeezing their eyes as if they needed glasses. It looks kind of adorable, but it is nerve-wracking nonetheless. 

It might be just camouflage, but Dean, with a safe distance between them, dares to take a moment to centre himself. He called upon them for answers, so asking he will. He straightens himself again, lowering his voice intentionally. "Who are you?"

"Castiel," the creature says without really looking up and Dean can barely keep himself from rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I figured that much. I mean _what_ are you?"

The 'man' raises their head and pulls their gaze from the notes, fixing it on Dean's face. A moment of uncertainty or maybe bewilderment plays out between them before the words "I'm an angel of the Lord" make their way into Dean's mind.

No, that can't be true! Vampires? No problem. Demons? Sure, why not? But angels!? Sickly sweet, chubby cherubs or feathered warriors in suits of armour? Both doesn't sit right with Dean.

Angels are meant to be messengers of God and if there is one thing that Dean knows after his 29 years walking this earth it's a very simple truth, deeply ingrained in his soul. He learnt it through being a half-orphan who saw his home burn down with his mother inside and his baby brother in his own short arms, the brother who he had to parent because their father wasn't able to through grief and madness. He learnt it as he went through way too many years of hunting the monsters of the world and fighting with and against his body until it became inhabitable. He knows it through hardship, the preciousness and fragility of tiny moments of happiness. What he learnt is a simple truth, no matter what his mother told him before he went to sleep so many years ago: No angels are watching over him, no God hearing his prayers.

God is either a mythical creature or a long time dead. God surely doesn't play chess with humans being gaming pieces on a heavenly checkerboard. And even if, God wouldn't play with Dean, neither as a king nor as a pawn. God doesn't know Dean Winchester, because Dean Winchester is a creation of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing," Dean says, chewing out every single word.

Castiel turns to fully face him, their eyes somehow softer than before, yet their gaze not less intense. "This is your problem, Deanna. You have no faith."

"Of course not! How should I believe in an angel if he can't even get my name right, much less my private parts?" Dean scoffs. 

The words finally seem to provoke a reaction on Castiel's face. A deep frown and a tightening of their eyes are the first signs, then they tilt their head slightly to the side, scrutinising Dean in an intensity that makes him squirm and writhe inwardly.

"Do you say that Heaven got it wrong when they sent me saving and restoring you?"

Dean huffs. "Heaven? With a capital H? Man, you are really full of yourself!"

Dean doesn't know where his courage is coming from. Maybe it's just stupidity. But the nerves of that guy! This angel crap may impress others, but Dean literally went to hell and back. He won't believe a trenchcoat on two legs just because they tell him shit like this.

If Dean were absolutely honest, he would have to confess that he just doesn't _want_ to believe them. Because if what Castiel said is true, Dean will have to live with the fact that his existence is possibly not just a fluke, a whim of nature, but that someone designed him just like that, wanted him to struggle with his identity, wanted him to hate himself, at least sometimes.

He knows some of the redemption paths the god of the bible set people on. They were not pretty. Thinking that in a new addition - The Newer Testament or something - his life, his becoming, his resurrection, his personal horror might be told as a parable to teach believers from the pulpit makes him sick.

Castiel can't be an angel because the implications would tear Dean apart and he doesn't know what will be left of him if all his anger erupts out of him.

Castiel lowers their chin and for a moment it looks like they are about to laugh. But then thunder and lightning surround them in the confined space of the barn and in the shadows cast by a thunderbolt Dean sees them. They are majestic, a sight for sore, unbelieving eyes. They are intimidating as hell - or heaven in that case. Angel's wings painted by shadows, their real form hidden in some other plane of existence.

Dean crumbles slowly, one tiny stone first, then another, until his fortitude comes down in an avalanche of gravel. He sinks down on his knees, defeated. Everything he believed in - hard work, self-determination, self-defining, having your destiny in your own hands, shaping yourself a mould where you fit in comfortably - all that slowly fades away.

Castiel is still hovering above him like a tower. Dean feels their gaze burning holes into his scalp as he fights against the urge to throw up.

"Deanna ..."

"Dean!" he presses out, using the boiling anger at hearing his deadname to gather power. He ignores the softness of Castiel's voice. "My name is Dean Winchester and yes, whoever keeps up the records up there should be tarred and feathered or the other way around," he says.

Dean thinks his wordplay was hilarious. Or maybe he's just hysterical now. He giggles and can't stop. The mighty angels or God themself fucked up big time. It's not even funny, but if he stops laughing, he will start crying. Like hell he will! Not in front of the arsehole who left their handprint on him and gave him back all the bits that were long time left to rot.

The thought sobers him instantaneously. He gets up from the floor and straightens himself until he's towering over the angel, schooling his face to full seriousness. 

"Oh, mighty Castiel. Did someone mess up your order or did you manage that all on your own?" Dean asks in a condescending tone of voice.

"I don't make mistakes. Heaven doesn't make mistakes," Castiel replies matter-of-factly, but their eyes flicker through the room. They aren't able to hold Dean's gaze any longer.

Dean steps closer, their noses mere centimetres apart. "My name is Dean Winchester. I am the firstborn of Mary and John Winchester. You saved me from hell, leaving your dirty handprint on my arm. Putting me back together you messed up big time. Now get your feathery ass up and fix the mistake you made, because one thing is as clear as day: This isn't the body that I went to hell with. And I don't care what mighty, important plan you or God or whoever calls the shots plotted out. I don't care why I was important enough to be saved. But you either fix this or you can forget about your precious little scheme. Do you understand me?"

The angel stares at him for a long moment, then nods impalpably. Dean hears the flapping of wings and the next second Castiel is gone. He blinks several times, contemplating for a moment if he just dreamt up the whole thing.

Silence wraps around the barn and Dean just stands there in the moonlight falling in through the door, mind empty and heart too full. He pulls up his walls as best as he can, blinking away the tears, and forming fists until his nails bite sharply into his flesh.

He just wants this nightmare to be over. He wants his old life back. But he has the suspicion that this is no longer in his cards anymore. There are angels out there, a god of unknown influence. This alone will take some time to get used to.

There are groans and movements on the floor as Sam and Bobby wake up from their angelic sleep.

"What the hell happened!?" Bobby asks, rubbing his head. Dean offers him a hand to get back on his feet.

Sam shoots up, scanning his brother for injuries. "Are you okay, Dean?"

Dean chuckles and rubs his hand over his neck. "I don't know. I guess that depends. Bobby, what do ya know about the ways to kill an angel?"


	8. Chapter 8

Waiting has never been Dean's forte, but now it's even more nerve-wracking. He feels like vibrating out of his skin, as if a swarm of bees were buzzing right underneath his surface. That's why, when the angel doesn't show up for the third day, Dean decides to go on a hunt.

Sam is rather quiet on the late afternoon drive, but Dean can feel his puppy eyes gaze on him from time to time. It makes him want to squirm.

"What!?" he barks, gripping the steering wheel of his beloved Baby a little tighter. It's not the first time since his return that he lashes out verbally.

"Nothing," Sam murmurs.

Dean groans. "Just spit it out."

"Dean," Sam says with worry and sympathy lacing his voice. Dean hates this tone, especially when it is directed at him. "Don't you wanna talk about it? I mean. Your whole life turned upside down."

"Sammy, when is my life not turned upside down? That's how I roll if you weren't aware."

Sam sighs in irritation. "Yes, Dean, but this is big!"

Dean rolls his eyes slightly. It's the elephant in the car so to speak. That still doesn't make him want to talk about it. "The whole de-transition thing or the angel crap?"

"Both."

_Of course._ Sam wouldn't be his little brother if he didn't want to talk about the stuff that Dean would rather like to ignore.

"I just can't believe that you didn't ask him why he pulled you out. I mean, it could give you leverage."

Dean shakes his head. "I think I have that anyway. No matter what they wanna use me for, they wouldna go to such lengths if it weren't important."

Sam nods and looks out of the window to gather his thoughts. "You trust them?"

"No, not an inch," Dean chuckles without mirth.

"But they are angels. They are mighty but good, right?" Sam argues. He always believed in God, angels, heaven. It doesn't feel like a foreign concept to him. It was just a surprise to learn it's actually true. And a bit disappointing that Castiel knocked him out right away without Sam being able to pelt them with questions.

"How good can they be if one of them pulls me out of hell, puts me back together with the wrong parts, and leaves me six feet under? He buried me alive, Sammy! Gettin' out of there wasn't a picnic."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Dean. It's fucked up. But maybe there was a logic behind it. Some kind of journey you needed to take. Like ... Odysseus."

"Oh, go away with that mythology bullshit, Sam! This is me we're talkin' about, not some fictional hero," Dean replies through gritted teeth.

His brother falls silent at that and works his jaw. Dean knows that he is holding back for Dean's benefit. He hates this. His brother is just worried for him and probably only tries to wrap his head around the whole thing just as he does himself.

* * *

The hunt goes sideways rather quickly. The one rabid werewolf turns out to be a whole pack.

Dean and Sam are surrounded by at least four of them, but everything happens so fast. One second Dean shoots a silver bullet right into one werewolf's head, the next he feels something slicing through his jeans and the flesh of his leg, the pain instantly and sharp.

Dean tumbles backwards. Somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, he hears Sam yell his name, then a shot and another. A heavy weight lands on top of him and Dean's head hits forcefully against the floor. His sight goes dark.

He doesn't know how long he has been out, but when he opens his eyes again, the room is silent bar fast approaching footsteps. There is a grunt above him and only then he realises that Sam shot the werewolf that attacked him and its corpse had somehow landed on top of him.

Sam hurries to roll the wolf aside. "How are you?" he asks and just at the tone of his voice Dean knows that the monster got him bad.

"M'fine," Dean presses out, already a little dizzy from the blood loss that Sammy tries to stop, pressing his crumpled shirt down on the gushing wounds as a make-shift pressure bandage.

Sam knows he needs to move Dean from here. This is nothing he can fix, as much as he wants to. His best guess is a perforated artery and that most likely won't just stop bleeding by itself.

Sam pulls his belt out of the loops of his jeans and fastens it around the blood-soaked piece of clothing. He pulls Dean into his arms, trying to lift him up. But Dean struggles against it.

"Dean, let me help you!" Sam grunts. "I need to get you to the hospital!"

Dean's words already come back slurred. "S too late, Sammy."

Angry tears prickle behind Sam's eyelashes. He just got him back. "I won't let you die like this!" he sniffles.

Sam clings to the one thought that may save his big brother. Heaven needs him. And so he prays, screaming his pleading into the echoing void of the silence around them.

With Dean in Sam's arms they look like a pietà. At least that is Castiel's first thought when they see them. The brothers look like pious art. Maybe they are. It was faith that brought Castiel here, made Sam's prayer reach their grace.

Castiel moves slowly. Not because they don't want to startle them. No. Such human thoughts wouldn't cross their mind. But because they know that they can heal the wounds in an instant.

Castiel could just lift their hand and do it from the distance, but something is pulling them closer, makes them put their hand right above the provisional compressor. Maybe it's the same reason why in hell they gripped the arm so tightly that it left a print - so human-like in its otherworldliness. Castiel doesn't allow themself to look at it too closely. That could lead to confusion, to feelings.

Sam's gaze flickers between the angel leaning over him and his brother's face. The pain that cut deep furrows into Dean's features just a moment ago is slowly fading. His brother seems nearly relaxed, a look Sam hasn't seen since Dean came back from hell.

"Is he alright?" Sam asks, voice low and fearful.

"Yes, she is."

"It's 'he'. Dean is a man," Sam corrects.

"I apologise," Castiel says to his surprise. "I will try to do better."

Sam looks up at Castiel whose gaze is fixed at Dean with a deep frown on their face as if they were puzzled by something.

"So ... you're Castiel?" The angel nods. "Thank you for saving my brother. Twice."

A barely-there smile is playing on their lips. "It was a privilege to save the righteous wo ... the righteous man."

"Does he need a blood transfusion?" Sam asks, brushing his thumb over Dean's pale cheek.

Castiel shakes his head in a slightly awkward way as if the body weren't really their own. Sam thinks of the poor souls who are possessed by demons. Are angels no better than them?

"No. I repleted as much as needed. He just needs rest."

Sam nods, searches Dean's pockets for his keys, and moves to lift his brother. He looks so small in his arms, but the pink of his cheeks is slowly coming back and his breathing is steady.

Sam carries him to the Impala and lays him down on the backseat of the car. With a last troubled look, he closes the door and turns to the angel.

"Why?"

Castiel tightens their eyes and tilts their head to the side. That's what Dean must have meant when he called the angel infuriatingly cute.

"Why did you come to save him?"

The angel scrutinises Sam with piercing eyes as if they were pondering if he was worthy of that knowledge.

"Because your brother is destined to save the whole world."


	9. Chapter 9

"What is that supposed to mean!?" Dean yells. 

Sam shrugs his shoulders in a helpless gesture. "He wouldn't tell me, said, he didn't know any details. It sounded as if he is just a foot soldier, following orders. He's not included in the big planning."

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "He healed me, Sammy, with nothing but the touch of his hand. You said it yourself. If he is one of the lesser angels then I really don't want to come across his superiors."

Dean slumps down on the couch and runs both hands over his face. "Did he say anything about my body?"

Sam sighs and looks over to Bobby like hoping for help. The action makes Dean's stomach flip in a very unpleasant way. Sam clears his throat. "Only that he can't make those changes and that he passed on your request, but hasn't heard back yet. Changing you back seems to be above his pay grade."

"Crap!" Dean sighs, his fingers tugging on his short hair until his scalp slightly hurts, the pain a more than welcome distraction from the unease spreading through the rest of his body.

Crap, indeed. There won't be an expressway back to his old body as it seems. Six years strictly for the birds. Dean feels like crying. But he knows that will only hurt Sam and Bobby, make them worry. So he swallows hard and gets up again.

"I'm tired. I'll shower and hit the hay," he says, well knowing that sleep won't find him soon. He slumbered through the whole drive home and - as strange as that may sound - physically he feels good. As if Castiel healed all the scars that he collected over the years. Maybe he did.

Dean walks into the bathroom and undresses, his back turned to the mirror over the washbasin. He used to not do that anymore after his top surgery. It feels like a distant memory now.

He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom cabinet. At least this way he has a small barrier between his body and the hand he is washing it with.

He fixes his eyes to the showerhead on the wall and steps inside the cubicle.

The hot water soothes some of the strains tugging on his neck, probably from being cramped into the backseat. He lets the water run for minutes, not caring if anyone else will want a hot shower after him. He deserves this little piece of relief.

Dean takes the shampoo from a little shelf in the corner and washes his hair. It's a familiar, nearly relaxing thing to do, although his last shower was roughly four decades ago. Ever since he came back he couldn't give himself more than a catlick, but he's past what might be socially acceptable and what has to be done, has to be done.

Dean breathes in the lemon scent settling in his hair. He's pretty sure Sammy bought this one. Bobby prefers earthy tones. Usually, Dean would too, but the fresh lightness works for him, mingles nicely with the scent of his skin. Maybe he'll keep on stealing it.

He showers the bubbles off his hair and fumbles for the bodywash. He squeezes some of it on the wet washcloth and runs it over his body with closed eyes, trying to be as efficient and quick as possible. He tightens his jaws when he moves the cloth over his breasts. This is somehow worse than he remembers from pre-op times.

He makes short work of cleaning the area between his legs. Tears are burning behind his eyelids. He hates this! Showers used to be fun again before the hellhounds pulled him into the pit.

On most days, Dean had been okay with his body. The way it felt, the way it looked. The flat chest and his t-cock made him happy. He was finally at home in his own skin. At least most of the time. But now? Six years of progress down the drain.

He lets the cloth fall to the ground and grabs the showerhead above him to swiftly wash away the suds he knows are covering his body. Then he stops the water, cursing when he steps out of the shower cubicle not remembering where he put the bath towel.

He opens his eyes and quickly wraps it around himself. It's wide enough to cover him from his armpits to the middle of his thighs. He'll wait a little until most of the moisture is gone, then he will dry the rest as fast as humanly possible.

He walks over to the spare room and pulls out some boxers and a wide teeshirt. The days and nights are still warm and Bobby's blankets warm and cosy. They are old. Maybe his late wife bought them all those years ago.

While waiting, Dean makes plans. Maybe tomorrow he'll take Baby for a ride, sing along to his favourite Led Zeppelin songs, and watch the autumn sun dip everything in golden light. Yeah, that sounds nice.

He grabs his walkman and presses play, not caring what cassette is inside. _Kashmir_ blares out of the headphones with the extra-long cable, volume up to maximum. Dean focuses on the lyrics while drying himself off.

_Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails  
Across the sea of years  
With no provision but an open face  
Along the straits of fear_

He is finished donning his nightwear when the song is over. He fumbles the walkman through the neckline of his shirt and slips under the blanket. Tossing and turning he tries to find sleep. But his brain is in overdrive. 

_Your brother is destined to save the whole world._

_Your brother is destined to save the whole world._

_Your brother is destined to save the whole world._

**_Fuck!_ **


	10. Chapter 10

Dean slowly drifts from a sleepy state into consciousness. The morning sun is creeping through the curtains, casting shadows on the wall. Dean grunts and runs a hand over his face, brushing away the sand in his eyes.

"Good morning, Dean." The voice catapults Dean out of his semi-sleep. He bolts up and off the bed, instant alert powering his system. It takes a moment to recognise the angel sitting at the end of his bed. How long have they been there?

"Did you watch me sleeping?" the hunter demands to know.

"Yes, Dean. I wanted to make sure that you are recovering well."

Dean scrunches his face. "Whoa, that's kinda creepy, dude!"

The angel regards him. "My apologies, Dean. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," they say with a small dip of their chin.

Dean huffs a laugh. "Sorry, but this," he moves his hand between him and the angel, " _is_ making me _very_ uncomfortable. Ever since you touched me in hell, nothin' has been comfortable. If you get my drift."

Castiel nods slightly. "I am sorry to hear that. And I am sorry that ..." The usually composed angel looks lost for a moment, fishing for the right words, but coming back empty-handed. They stare helplessly at their hands lying in their lap.

"Did you hear anything from upstairs?" Dean asks, his voice a little bit softer than before.

The angel's eyes shoot up and they tilt their head to the side. "You mean Heaven," they say and Dean nods. The angel runs their tongue over their dry lips, the movement way too human for Dean's liking. "I asked my superiors to give you back your customised form. They didn't seem to be inclined to grant it."

Dean pushes his jaw forward in a short flare of anger. "Why not? What am I impossible to do when my body isn't like this? My old one is even stronger. That it went down to shit yesterday is because I'm not used to this body anymore. Everything feels wrong. Every movement is foreign."

Castiel swallows hard. It's as unsettling as the lip thing. Angels are supposed to be beyond human acts like this, aren't they? 

"It's just flesh and bones, Dean."

Dean chuckles without mirth. "Is that what we are to you? A cluster of different tissues wrapped around a soul? Is that why you possess a poor bastard like a demon would do?"

Castiel's head shoots up at the accusation. "No!" they say firmly, "I thought you could process my real voice, but you can't, as we saw after your resurrection. And I don't want to hurt you like I did that seeress. I asked her to stop, but she wouldn't listen," Castiel explains, their voice edgy and laced with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "We are not like demons in any way! Angels need the vessel to agree to the possession."

"Is that so?" Dean asks sarcastically. "So, the tax accountant or whoever you're wearing like a meat suit right now agreed to that?"

"Yes. He is a very devout man. He actually prayed for this."

Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Is he dead?"

"No, he is very much alive, just ... dormant," the angel explains.

"And are you vessel hopping often or does he have to endure this for millennia?" Dean asks, pursing his lips still disgusted by the thought.

"Angels haven't walked the earth regularly for nearly 2000 years, Dean. We only take vessels when it's needed."

"So. What brings you to our neck of the woods? Why are you here? And what does it all have to do with me?"

Castiel smiles softly and the sight tickles in Dean's chest. What a weird reaction to a powerful angel of the Lord who most likely can not only heal him with a touch of his hand but may very much make him drop dead by it, too.

"You are destined to save the world, Dean," Castiel says softly with warmth lacing every syllable. 

"Why? Why me? I am _nothing_!"

The angel kocks his head to the side, scrutinising him intensely. "Why would you think that? You are from a powerful bloodline. You endured decades of torture in hell before you gave in."

Pain and regret run over Dean's face and Castiel gets up from their spot on the bed, taking an even closer look at the man in front of them.

"I held your soul in my hands, Dean. It was light and fiery, like nothing I have ever seen before. I have known the universe when it was still just dust and chaos. I witnessed the creation of this world and yet I haven't seen _anything_ as beautiful and pure as your soul, Dean."

The hunter squirms under the praise. "There's nothing beautiful about me!" he pushes back, "More than one of your ground crew called me a disgrace, an abomination. Because _your_ bible taught them so."

Castiel looks away, their gaze flickering through the room. "The holy scriptures were supposed to teach humans the greatness of God, that he loves his creation and every single one of his children, that he is a caring mother; that God guides and protects his crown of creation. Humans twisted it into something that it isn't."

Dean shakes his head at that. "Did the old man say so himself? Because there are a whole lotta people out there preaching hate in his name."

"I am well aware of that. But they are only speaking for themselves, not for God. Unfortunately, that is the outcome of free will. One can choose to do good _or_ evil, spread love or hate."

As if Dean wouldn't know. He has been on the receiving end of hate disguised as love more often than he could count.

"Doesn't the bible say God created humanity in the image of himself? Maybe he's just as fucked up as we are. I mean, why would he put me in a female body?"

"I don't know, Dean. But I am sure that God had good reasons for this."

Dean shakes his head. "Maybe ask him next time when you see him."

Castiel looks at him with something akin to sadness in their eyes. "I have never seen my father. Only four of us ever have."

Dean's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. "Woah! You're tellin' me, God is AWOL or is he just a self-important dick?"

"I don't get the meaning of that," Castiel says, confusion written in their features. With every second they are talking, the cold mask of their first meeting seems to slowly fade away. Castiel appears more and more human and Dean wonders if it is him who manages to pull the angel out of the stoic calm or if it's just the angel settling into the human body they are wearing like a suit.

"Doesna matter. We're getting off tracks here," Dean says, brushing away the distracting thoughts. "Why me?"

Castiel's face moves from confusion to soberness. "Because you broke the first seal," they say matter-of-factly as if this were common knowledge somehow.

"I did what!?" Dean's question resonates loudly in the room.

"The first seal starting the process to bring on the apocalypse."

Dean stares at the angel with wide eyes. He? He broke the seal? How!? As if they read his mind, Castiel answers his questions. "When you, the righteous man, gave in to torture, you broke the first seal."

Dean sinks into himself and onto the bed, holding his head in both hands. "It was bound to happen, Dean. Either you or your future children were destined to give in," the angel tries to comfort him.

Dean scoffs. "No. You see, I will never have biological children, Castiel. It would have died with me, unless Sammy can pass this curse, too."

"No, he can't. He's ...," Castiel trails off.

"He's what!?"

"I already said too much," Castiel replies, brushing their hands nervously over the fabric of their trenchcoat. There is the sound of flapping wings and the angel is gone.

Dean stares a long moment at the now empty spot. _Son of a bitch!_


	11. Chapter 11

"I may have a lead," Sam says over breakfast after Dean filled his brother and uncle in about the strange visit of the angel.

"What?" Dean asks munching his sandwich.

"Came across it two days ago, but it didn't seem relevant at that time, but now I'm not so sure anymore."

Sam gets up and fetches his laptop from the living room. He turns the screen to the other men and presses play on a video showing a redheaded woman in her early twenties. She preaches from the pulpit of a church.

"The first seal has been broken. But the Lord says: My children, fear not! For I will send you a righteous woman who will fight the wicked and will ward off evil. As it is written in the Holy Bible: _The Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake._ Brothers and sisters, let's thank the Lord, our God, for His mercy, and keep in our prayers the righteous woman that He sent to save us."

Dean presses the stop button and closes his eyes for a second. "Who is she?"

Sam turns the laptop to face him and types on the keyboard. "Anna Milton, 23. Her parents are Rich and Amy Milton, a church deacon and a housewife. She started preaching in her father's church after claiming to hear the voices of angels."

"So, she's a prophet or somethin'?" Bobby asks.

Sam shrugs and furrows his brow. "Probably. Castiel might be able to say if it's possible, I suppose. Did he give you a way to reach out to him?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. But how did you get hold of him yesterday?"

Sam blushes a little. "I prayed."

Dean chuckles. "You said the rosary or what?" he teases.

Sam rolls his eyes. "No, I called upon the angels and when nothing happened, I called him by his name. He was there in an instant."

Dean makes an annoyed face, but it's obvious that the thought of his little brother asking the angels to save him _again_ makes him uncomfortable. He can't be important enough. There must be a mistake. This Anna talked about a woman who would save the world, and he isn't one for fuck's sake! But Castiel called him _the righteous man_ this morning, so maybe it's just the fucked up gender mess.

"We need to question her," Sam pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah," Dean replies, "let's do this before calling the fowl."

* * *

"Hi, my name is Sam Winchester, and this is my ..."

"... sister Deanna. Oh thank the Lord," Anna exclaims and flings her arms around Dean's neck. He pats her on the back with an eye-roll and pushes her away softly. He takes a few steps to the side to bring some distance between them.

"Actually, it's Dean," he says and clears his throat. Maybe hell was ... well, hell actually, but at least he didn't need to permanently correct others with his name and pronouns. Alastair loved to praise him using his name: Dean Winchester - the best apprentice hell has ever seen.

"But the angel said ...," Anna starts.

"Well, the angel didn't know shit," Dean interrupts her and presses his jaws together. It's not her fault, of course, but anger is so much easier than exercising leniency.

If she's one of those holier-than-thou people then Sam will have to question her alone anyway. Dean already feels on edge and they just arrived.

Anna falters at the sight of his disgruntled frown. "S...sorry, I didn't mean to," Anna apologises to everyone's surprise. "Maybe we start from the beginning?" Dean nods silently. "My name is Anna and it is an honour to meet you. I've heard so much about you. The angels don't stop gushing over you."

Dean chuckles. Angel's must have a rather boring life if he is the gossip of the day.

"So, you can hear angels? Like ... all the time or do they just pop up in your bedroom?" Sam asks with a side glance at Dean.

Anna looks at him in confusion. "They are in my head. Not all the time, but it's as if I'm sometimes tuning in on their wavelength or something. They are not talking to me directly, but I can listen in to their conversations. It started about five days ago. They said that ... well I suppose that you were saved. It was like a huge announcement, meant to reach everyone. It was the clearest message I received so far, the rest was more faint."

She takes a step closer to Dean. "You're really here to save us from Lucifer's return?"

Dean shrugs and purses his lips. "That's the word. I'm not so sure about that."

Anna eyes him with sympathy. "It must be a burden for sure. But we all pray for your success."

Dean nods, going for a smile, but failing. "Yeah. Thanks for that. I wouldn't mind staying under the radar, though."

"I understand," Anna says with a little smile playing on her lips. Dean's eyes fix on them for a long moment.

God, he hasn't kissed someone for ages. Literally. But maybe a preacher's daughter isn't the best to start with.

Dean clears his throat. "Why do you think that you can hear them?"

"I don't know for sure. But I think God wants to reassure his flock that we are in good hands," she answers, still smiling at him full of hope.

Dean looks away and fidgets with the sleeve of his father's leather jacket. It's several sizes too big, but it used to give him comfort in the past and Dean clings onto the memory and the vision of getting to the end of his former journey again. Well, at least when the whole apocalypse shit is over.

"We've seen that demon activity is higher in the area than usual," Sam fills the silence.

"Demons!" Anna breathes and presses her hand over her mouth. "Jesus! ... Sorry. I didn't mean to use the Lord's name in vain."

Dean shakes his head once. "Don't ya worry. The righteous man says much worse things." He gives her one of his face splitting, cheeky grins and the brightness of Anna's answering smile could put the sun to shame.

Sam chuckles. "Yeah. See ... we think you might be in danger. Demons could be interested in somebody who can eavesdrop on angels. It might be better if you came with us. We can protect you. And we may find out why you have the gift at all."

Anna agrees without hesitation. The whole way back to Bobby's house, Anna stares at Dean from the passenger side of the front bench of the Impala. On the back seat, Sam rolls his eyes at the scene unfolding in front of him.

Leave it to his brother to sweet-talk the daughter of a clergyman. Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean offered his bed to her. Totally selfless, of course.


	12. Chapter 12

"Here," Sam says and hands Anna a cup of tea. She takes it with a thankful smile, still rather rigidly sitting on the edge of the sofa in Bobby's living room.

"So, the voices started only a few days ago, you said. Have there ever been unusual things happening in your life before that? Did you see things that shouldn't be there? Or were you afraid of things or people that shouldn't have scared you?" Dean asks, sitting opposite of her in an armchair.

Anna ponders the questions for a long moment. "When I was about two years old my parents had to send me to therapy as I was convinced that my dad wasn't really my father. I insisted that my true father would come to kill me. It got better eventually. But that aside, no. My life has been rather ordinary."

Bobby scrutinises her intensely. "Maybe there is a deeper meanin' to that. Kids do not just think that someone is gonna kill them." He gives Sam and Dean a long, sad look before he turns back to Anna. "Do you have any experience with hypnosis?" Anna shakes her head no.

"You wanna hypnotise her? For what?" Dean asks alarmed. He knows what it means to bury your thoughts so deeply that you can barely reach them yourself. The thought of someone rummaging around in his mind without him being able to resist scares the shit out of him.

"Maybe she once knew the reason why she can hear angels now. If I hypnotised her, we could find out what it is," Bobby explains.

"I don't know," Dean says, pressing his lips to a thin line.

"Bobby is right," Sam chimes in. "It's the only way to find out if it's really angels. Unless you want to call Castiel of course."

"No!" Dean says forcefully, "I had enough angel for one day."

The three men look at Anna who gives them a sad smile. "I'm ready. How does it work?"

* * *

Bobby is surprised by how easily Anna glides into hypnosis. He hasn't used this technique very often, but it has never been so uncomplicated. Anna is either a natural or she is just very willing to find the truth.

"Anna, tell me. How can you hear the angels?" Bobby asks with a softness in his voice that Sam and Dean only know from the moments their father dropped them off or when they were sick as kids.

Anna's voice is relaxed when she answers, "I don't know ... I just did."

"Alright. I want you to look further back, when you were very young, Anna. Just a couple of years old."

"I don't wanna," Anna protests, a slight strain lacing the words.

"It'll be okay, Anna," Bobby promises and puts his hand soothingly on Anna's trembling arm.

"He's gonna kill me!" Anna all but shouts. Her movements and voice become jittery as she repeats the sentence over and over again.

Dean jumps to Bobby's side, ignoring his warning to not touch her, and before he knows it he's flying through the room, pushed by Anna with superhuman strength.

He lies on the floor for a long, dumbfounded moment. He hears Bobby counting her out of the hypnosis. Anna stops still, no words passing her lips any longer. She stares at Dean with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Are you alright?" Sam asks and it isn't clear if he means Anna or Dean with it, maybe both.

"Thank you, Bobby. That helped a lot," Anna says a little out of breath. "I remember now."

"Remember what?" Bobby asks.

"Who I am," she answers cryptically. The men share looks, waiting for her to elaborate.

When nothing follows, Dean says, "I'll bite. Who are you?"

Anna turns to him, a strange mix of peace and pain striking her features. "I'm an angel."

* * *

A fallen angel, giving up her grace after watching humanity for millennia and yearning for a life full of emotions, chocolate cake, and sex.

Dean didn't miss the glimmer in Anna's eyes when she mentioned the last part. It was directed at him and a welcome swirl of arousal spreads through Dean's stomach.

He raises his eyebrow in recognition and gives her a wink. Sam sighs as he usually does when his brother is set on conquering course. He leaves the room, but not without shaking his head in amusement and patting his brother on the shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes in response. He knows that Sammy is already looking for a place far, far away from Dean's room _and_ the Impala. Wisdom comes with experience after all.

Dean straightens himself and walks over to her, stopping in Anna's personal space. "It's getting late," he muses.

"That it does,"Anna replies and runs her tongue over her lips before leaning her head back and catching Dean's gaze with her own.

"So, the apocalypse may be coming. Who knows how soon?" he murmurs.

"Are you giving me the last night on earth speech?" Anna asks, cocking her eyebrow and brushing her hand through Dean's short hair, settling it at the back of his neck.

He closes the space between them and puts his hands on her hips. "Does it work?" he asks with a cheeky grin.

Anna snickers. "You just need to ask. No other reason needed."

Dean grins and pulls her into a kiss. God, he missed this. Her lips are soft and warm against his. They taste like strawberry bubblegum and summer.

Anna hums happily into his mouth when he opens her lips with his tongue. They stay like this for a while, just sliding mouths and soft touches.

It slowly turns into a heated make-out session and Dean forces himself to pull away. "You do know that I'm ..."

She pulls him back into the kiss, this time more fiercely and it makes Dean dizzy. The fluttering feeling turns to a full-blown firestorm.

"For heaven's sake! Get a room, you two," Bobby's rumbling voice comes from the hallway.

"Not a bad idea," Dean laughs a little breathless, "What do you say?" 

Anna grabs his arse and pulls him even closer. "I'd say that I could need some form of distraction," she agrees with a feather-light laugh that shoots directly to Dean's groin.

That night, it's with her in his arms and her strawberry scent surrounding him that Dean finally finds proper sleep for the first time since he came back. Anna might have lost her grace, but at least she can gift him with heavenly sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel clears his throat loudly and Dean counts silently to three before he opens his eyes. Anna is draped around him and he wonders what a picture they must be for an angel. Did they see much worse? Are they disgusted? Indifferent? Did they watch them sleeping as they watched Dean the day before?

When the hunter opens his eyes, all he can see is the trenchcoat covered back of the angel and he lets out a sigh.

"Never heard of privacy, man?" he asks and instinctively tightens his embrace around Anna who tries to hide her face on his shoulder.

"My apologies, Dean. I wasn't aware that you had relations with a woman. But I can assure you the reason for my visit is urgent."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Too urgent to, you know, knock at the door and wait until I ask you in?"

Castiel stays silent, but their shoulders speak of the tenseness this talk is clearly inflicting on them. Dean wonders if angels even have a concept of private spaces or moments. He'll have to ask Anna about it.

"Okay, if this is bound to happen, so be it. But wait downstairs unless you want me to flaunt my ass in front of you," he grumbles.

Castiel seems to be frozen in thought, but then - with a whoosh - they are gone and Anna raises her head. "I guess I should stay here until you're done."

Dean nods. "Yeah. That'd be better. Listen, last night ..."

"... was great, but a one-time thing. Don't you worry, Dean. You're not my first one-night stand," Anna snickers.

Dean looks at her in disbelief. "But you're a preacher's daughter!"

Anna laughs. "We are the worst. Or the best, depending on from side you look at it. Did you have the impression that I am not well versed in the area of _having relations_?"

Dean chuckles. "Do all angels talk like that?"

Anna snickers. "Most, especially those who don't get in contact with humanity very often. Of course, there are infamous exceptions like Balthazar. Looking back I'm sad that I didn't appreciate his manners more when he visited our legion. He's a special kind of breed. That's for sure. Most angels find him too flamboyant."

"Can't wait to meet him if he doesn't have a stick up his ass as the angel downstairs." He rolls his eyes.

"Don't be so harsh. Castiel is just doing his job. He's a soldier."

"But he didn't do a good job, did he?" Dean asks, the all too familiar ball of anger curling in his stomach again.

"He pulled you out of hell, Dean, and he healed you. What else do you want?"

"I want _my_ body back!" he barks. He knows that it's not right to let his anger out on her, but he just can't help it.

"Of course. I'm sorry," Anna says softly, "It must be very painful for you. I just ... I think you're very handsome."

Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment. "But you do not really see me as a man," he says, trying to push away the unease that she so easily caressed away last night.

"What makes you think that?" she asks and Dean has no real answer to that. She most certainly didn't treat him as anything else than the man that he is. She was patient, asked questions when needed, they had fun. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the rainbow community. But I'm only an ally, if you get what I mean."

Dean laughs and brushes her hair out of her eyes. "You're perfect," he says, presses a kiss on her nose, and climbs out of the bed. He straightens his teeshirt in the process. "Have you seen my briefs?" he asks, frowning after finding the packer discarded on the floor.

She leans down from the bed and throws it at him. "Thanks. Sorry that I have to go downstairs to your fellow angel," he apologises.

"He'll have an important mission for you. Angels are very task-oriented. One thing I never missed as a human."

"What would you have missed if you'd remembered where you came from?" Dean asks while he pulls up his jeans.

"Being part of something bigger than me, I guess. Always knowing what my next step would be. But honestly? It's not enough to make me want to go back. I didn't feel anything before I fell."

"Feelings are overrated," Dean murmurs and closes the buttons of his plaid shirt.

Anna shakes her head. "Believe me. Being emotionless may seem to be a safe way not to get hurt, but all emotions, even pain, they make you feel _alive_. Take a look at this Castiel and ask yourself: Is he happy? Does he even have a concept of happiness beyond pleasing his superiors?"

Dean smirks at her. He really can't imagine Castiel doing anything just for fun. "Make yourself comfortable. Maybe I can put him off and come back for round two?" Dean says, raising both eyebrows seductively and Anna snickers.

"We'll see."

* * *

"No, it must be him. No angel could get from this demon what he can," Castiel tries to persuade Sam.

"What? Are we hunting demons for Heaven now? I thought I am supposed to save the world," Dean says from the threshold.

"Yes, Dean. That's still your mission. But we have an additional problem and we need your help," Castiel says turning to him. 

"My help? I just came back from hell _and_ I nearly died two days ago. Don't you think I deserve a break?" Dean spits out.

"Now you mind your tone with me," Castiel says with a slight edge to their voice. "Angels are murdered."

"And they have no clue if it even is a demonic murderer," Sam explains. 

"My superiors are convinced that there is no other explanation," the angel says without taking their burning gaze off Dean.

"And you just swallow what they feed you," Dean says matter-of-factly. "What makes you think you can just order us around? Whatcha gonna do if I just say 'no'?"

Castiel's face turns into the mask they wore back in the barn. The only difference is the fury replacing the stoic calm. They stomp over to Dean and stop only centimetres from his face.

"Seven angels were killed, all from my garrison. Do you think the armies of Heaven shouldn't use all available tools to stop the carnage? There's a bigger picture here, Dean. You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in," they roar into his face.

Dean looks at them with wide eyes. He remembers the shadows of their impressive wings. It's too easy to forget how powerful Castiel is with this hideous trenchcoat and crooked tie, their stupidly intense blue eyes and constant sex hair.

Dean really needs to get a grip on himself. Fooling around with one angel after another really wasn't in his plans for 2008. But honestly, why does Castiel needs to act this hot?

Dean feels a nervous giggle working its way up to his throat and he holds his breath to keep it bottled up. He nods silently and Castiel takes a step back. They straighten their coat before they lay their hand on Dean's arm, right over the handprint hidden underneath his shirt.

Dean blinks at them, feeling a connection he can't explain, and in the next moment, everything around him stretches into thin lines of colours.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean steadies himself against the wall. Castiel's hand between his shoulder blades is a warm anchor for his trembling body, keeping him from sinking to his knees until the world around him stops turning.

"What the hell was that!?" Dean breathes when he can finally bring his stomach to calm down.

"I flew us here. My apologies, Dean. I should have warned you. It's not always comfortable for humans," Castiel explains.

"Well," Dean swallows, "that's an understatement. Fuck! Never do that again." The angel nods remorsefully. "Where are we anyway?" Dean asks and turns around, taking in the surroundings. It looks like an abandoned industrial building, all brick, concrete, and steel, water running over precarious power supply lines.

"This is none of your concern," a deep voice comes from the far end of the room and a sturdily built, bald man steps out of the shadows. 

From the corner of his eye Dean sees how Castiel schools their face to a neutral expression, all former signs of concern for Dean washed away in a split second. They straighten themself and turn their gaze from Dean forward without focussing on anything in particular. The other 'man' must be an angel too and by the looks of Castiel's behaviour a superior of them.

Dean swallows hard. Is he in heaven? Or were the angels killed here? And if he is meant to find the demons who did this, why didn't Castiel bring Sam and Bobby with them?

"Winchester," the higher angel says in a deep, rumbling voice, "what a peculiar little thing you are." He walks closer, one hand casually in the pocket of his dress pants. He looks more relaxed than Castiel ever did. He wears no tie and the first button of his shirt is opened. Do all angels wear suits? Another question Dean will have to ask Anna later. And the angel dares to call _him_ peculiar.

"Not as little as you think," Dean retorts and earns himself a deep belly laugh.

"I like your sass," he chuckles, "My name is Uriel." He reaches out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Deanna."

"Dean," Castiel corrects him before the hunter can do it himself.

"Oh, yes. Castiel told us about your little problem," Uriel chuckles.

"Little problem!? That's what you call it? How would you like it if someone just took your real body away?" Dean shouts.

Uriel just laughs at him. "I do not even have a body, missy. Angels are light and energy, movement and sight. Our true form is huge. This ...," they pat down their vessel's body, "... is just a temporary solution for the benefit of bugs like you."

Dean wants to punch the smirk off Uriel's face but thinks better of it. Instead, he looks at Castiel who still stands there in perfect soldier fashion. Only their eyes give away the unease about their superior's words. Dean has the distinct feeling that Castiel might be rather soft under their rough demeanour. But maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Dean purses his lips. "Why am I here? Is this a murder scene?"

Uriel chuckles darkly. "That depends on how good you're doing your job. Show him, Castiel!" he orders barking.

Castiel gives Dean a sad look and leads him to a metal door with a square window. As soon as Dean peeks through it his blood runs cold. There he is, only a few metres away from him, chained to a huge star of David. The demon of his nightmares.

"Alastair," Dean breathes. His pulse speeds up until it feels as if his heart were about to beat out of his chest.

"He can't escape, Dean. The devil's trap is in old Enochian. You're safe," Castiel tries to calm him.

"How did you nab him?" Dean asks turning around, his eyes flickering between the two angels.

"He was snooping around, maybe looking for his most talented student," Uriel says still smirking. 

Dean takes a deep breath. Uriel knows. Does Castiel know, too? The thought doesn't sit well with Dean, but how could it? There is a reason why he hasn't told a single soul what Alastair made him do. What he was willing to do for him after two decades of being tortured himself.

_I haven't seen anything as beautiful and pure as your soul, Dean._ Did Castiel already know about it when they said that? Now, the angel's face looks sympathetic at least.

"That's why you're here. We need you to find out who is killing our brethren," Uriel continues and Dean lets his head sink, shaking it slightly in refusal.

"I can't," he says, close to tears.

"You will," Uriel replies with a finality that knots Dean's stomach into tight lumps. There is the now-familiar sound of wings and Dean just hopes that Uriel left because he can't keep himself up any longer. He sinks to his knees and lets his body slump against the door. Castiel goes down with him and steadies him with their side.

"I can't," Dean repeats.

He feels Castiel's hand brushing soothingly over his chest. "I wish there were another way, Dean," they say and the hunter can feel their honest sympathy.

"Why me? Don't you have a specialist for that? What about the archangels?"

Castiel stays silent for a long moment and then shakes his head. "We need the information. Any angel would just kill Alastair on the spot."

"But you didn't," Dean argues.

"I am a good soldier," Castiel says and Dean thinks about Anna's words. He finds the answer in Castiel's emotion-torn face. No, the angel doesn't know happiness, but they know war and pain, they know following orders is safer than giving in to emotions, and still. There seems to be this other side of them too, the wish to step out of line and make the right choices, even if they deviate from what they were told.

Maybe it's enough to save Dean from the darkness that lives inside of him ever since he gave in and tortured the first poor soul that Alastair had picked for him specifically. He grabs the lapel of Castiel's trenchcoat and pleads, "Please, don't make me do this, Cass."


	15. Chapter 15

It went all so fast and now Dean's lying on his back, immobilised and knocked out by a sure concussion while he can only watch through slotted eyes how Castiel is fighting against Alastair.

The white-eyed demon got the angel bad. Dean shouldn't have asked them to wait outside the torture chamber for him. He should have racked the demon on his own, should have endured the poisonous words Alastair spit at him on every turn without Castiel listening in, being on his beck and call.

But who knows? Maybe it's for the better. Now, Castiel knows how feckless Dean is, no matter what the angels were planning to use him for. But maybe Castiel won't live to tell their superiors that. The truth that Dean somehow let the demon loose, allowing him to not only kill _him_ , but also an angel that should have been on another mission, instead of babysitting one of hell's best torturers.

Alastair tosses Castiel through the room and with every new blow the angel's face is covered in more and more blood. And all because of him. Alastair wouldn't even be here if he hadn't looked for his favourite student.

Dean knows he is poison. He would deserve to be flung through the room. But Castiel? They decided to adjust orders, to stay by his side to give him the strength for what had to be done, and now they are paying the price for it.

Dean can't go out without even having truly tried to fight. He scans the room with his eyes. The dagger that Castiel pulled out of his sleeve a few minutes ago but lost during the fight is out of reach for the angel as it lies hidden behind a pillar. But if Dean tried, he might be able to reach it. He takes a last look at the battered angel who is still fighting for his life. 

Maybe Dean will die tonight at the hands of the demon who will most likely enjoy torturing him after that for all eternity. But at least he would die fighting for a friend. If he should survive this, he might ponder at what point the angel received that status update.

Dean pushes down the nausea threatening to boil over and crawls over the cold and wet concrete floor. Everything hurts, but he keeps on fighting. Inch by inch he gets closer until the blade is finally in front of him. Are humans even able to touch it without dying on the spot? What if only angels can use it?

There's no use in contemplating this. Dean is already a dead man walking. Well, he will be, if he manages to get up on his feet.

He grabs the handle of the angelic dagger and sighs quietly in relief as it settles in his hand without resistance. He pushes himself into a sitting position and takes a deep breath.

He has fought in much worse condition, his level of pain resistance a miracle for every pa teacher and school nurse he ever came across. Dean always laughed it off when he injured himself badly without even realising it. Deep inside it scares him how much he can endure and what little he cares for his own wellbeing.

But in moments like this it's a real blessing to be able to compartmentalise every emotion and every physical pain, put it in a box to ignore it, even later.

With a movement based on sheer willpower, he presses himself up against the pillar that he's still hiding behind. He turns and takes in the scene before him. Alastair is pushing Castiel against a wall. The angel doesn't resist anymore and it looks as if they are suffocating from the demon's hand closing tightly around their throat. Do angels even need to breathe? Dean isn't sure.

It doesn't matter anyway. This is the perfect situation. Alastair is focussing on Castiel, chanting something in Latin, leaving his back unprotected. It's nearly too easy to send Alastair back to hell where he belongs. But the angel blade slides into the demon's flesh without resistance and sends thunderbolts deep inside his body.

Alastair cries out in agony and lets go of Castiel who seems to be fixed at the wall. For a moment, Dean relishes the sounds of the wounded demon, but he doesn't trust his certain death. So he waits, his eyes fixed on the man wreathing on the floor until he suddenly stops, all life leaving the body and a black cloud pouring out of his vessel's mouth to return to hell.

Dean stares at the mouth that threatened him just a few minutes ago and the hands that battered his face now lying there lifeless and pale. Dean doesn't feel joy, not even satisfaction. He only feels numb.

Castiel lets out a strangled whimper that pulls Dean out of his stupor. He totally forgot that he wasn't the only person left in the room.

He rushes to them, using all the strength he can muster to lift the angel off the hook the demon had attached him to like a picture frame. Dean doesn't know how, but he manages it and he catches Castiel when they fall into his arms, at first nearly as lifeless as the body on the concrete.

But then Castiel begins to shiver endlessly and Dean pulls them into his arms, cradling their head on his shoulder. He whispers encouragements into their ear.

"Cass, look at me," he pleads and sees the angel trying hard to comply. Their eyes are glassy and blood-rimmed. "Can you call another angel?" Dean asks.

Castiel watches him and Dean doesn't understand why they look so ashamed. "Too weak," they barely whisper.

Dean nods in understanding. "Can you tell me where we are?"

Castiel slumps into Dean's arms, trusting him with all their weight and tells him the name of the building. Dean knows the area. It's a thirty minutes drive from Bobby's home.

"Sammy will soon be here," Dean says softly after hanging up the phone. "You're gonna be okay, Cass. We're gonna be okay."

And maybe it's silly because they both are covered in their own blood and Castiel is a frigging angel of the Lord, but Dean is far beyond giving a shit about proper etiquette. So he presses a kiss into Castiel's hair and it feels so right that it tears something open deep inside of Dean. Something that was buried under sarcasm, self-humiliation, and self-loathing, under cheeky flirting, meaningless flings, and long-forgotten hope. Something, Dean really doesn't want to look at too closely.

Maybe it's just the slowly fading levels of adrenaline in his blood or the endorphins his body releases now that Alastair is gone for a while. Yes, that's what it has to be. They are brothers in arms and they made it to the other side together. 

And if Sam looks at him in a way he only used to do once when he met Cassie, well ... Dean buried probably more emotions than he will ever truly feel. So this is just another one. Softness is for pussies and Dean Winchester for sure isn't one.


	16. Chapter 16

"Hey, there you are," Dean says, smiling down at Castiel from the edge of the bed.

The angel looks around, taking in the fresh linen wrapped around their underwear-clad body and Dean's battered face, clean of blood but swollen and painted with every colour of the rainbow. They reach out to touch him, clearly for healing purposes, but Dean pushes their hand softly down again. "Don't waste your mojo on me. Sammy took care of me already. Anna said you looked nearly empty of fuel. Alastair was close to draining you out and flinging you back to heaven."

"Who is Anna?" Castiel's voice sounds scratchy and foreign.

Dean chuckles softly. "It just figures that you went for this part of my little speech. How are you doin', buddy?"

Castiel gives him a look as if no one had ever asked them that. Maybe that is actually the case. Dean pushes away the impulse to pull the angel back into his arms. It had been hard enough to let Sam carry them to the car because he was too weak to do it himself.

Sam didn't even comment on Dean insisting to drive with them on the backseat. _Fuck!_ What is happening with him?

"I ... I'm tired. Normally, Angels aren't required to rest," Castiel states with a hint of panic in their eyes.

"Alastair did something with your ... grace ... Is that the right word?"

The angel nods. "Yes. Why do you know all that?"

"We have an insider on angel stuff, don't you worry your pretty little head about it," Dean answers, suppressing the urge to run his thumb over Castiel's cheek.

"Dean," Castiel says, their voice still weak, but low and demanding nonetheless. "Who is Anna?"

"I am an angel. Or at least I was one," Anna says, leaning against the doorframe. 

"Anna," Dean breathes, "why are you up here?"

"You trust him and I trust you. Besides, I think I am the only one who can help him, unless he is able to call one of our brethren."

Dean nods. Just 24 hours earlier she was lying with him in this very bed. Now he feels shame crawling underneath his skin about Castiel seeing them together. He's just not sure if the feeling is directed towards Anna or Castiel. Maybe both.

Castiel reaches inside of them to the core of their grace. It's still there, but whatever enchantment the powerful demon used, it was strong enough to drain them of most of it. Castiel shakes his head. It's not enough to reach out to other angels.

"So, Anna, what's the plan?" Dean asks without taking his eyes off the angel in his bed.

"Sam will help me recovering my grace. It will turn me into an angel again and then I'm gonna heal him," she explains.

"You're a fallen angel," Castiel mutters, "Why are you helping me?"

Anna gives them a soft smile. "If you had seen him last night, you would do anything to take this look off his face, too."

"Anna!" Dean and Castiel say in unison.

"No backtalk!" she orders with an authority Dean would have never expected from this usually so soft-spoken woman. "I recognise a profound bond when I see one. They are rare, the stuff from which legends and fairy tales are made."

"Profound what?" Dean asks jumping off the bed. His eyes flicker between the two angels in his room. How the hell did that happen!?

"It's a good thing, Dean. You two are destined to be together, to achieve great things collectively. The word isn't absolutely accurate, but you're soulmates, if you will."

Dean's jaw drops. _What? No!_ "You're kidding!" he all but yells.

"It's not a bad thing, Dean," she tries to calm him, "It's just that you and him, you complement one another."

"So we're meant to marry and live happily ever after?"

"It's not necessarily a romantic bond," Castiel says with a voice that nearly breaks Dean's heart, as sad and fragile as it sounds. "It's likely just to join our forces for fighting Lucifer if he should get out of the cage. I never heard of anything else between an angel and a human."

Dean watches how Castiel pulls the blanket over their shoulders and turns to face the wall. Dean looks down at his own feet and swallows around the lump in his throat.

"We should let him rest," Anna whispers and puts her hand comforting on Dean's shoulder. He nods with a heavy heart.

 _Soulmates. What the fuck!?_ As if his life wasn't difficult enough as it is.

* * *

"Hey, Cass, wake up," Dean says quietly, puts the tray in his hand on the nightstand, and nudges Castiel's side. They grumble something unintelligible but turn their perfect bed head nonetheless.

"Anna said you might get hungry so I brought you something. It's not much, but I thought your unaccustomed stomach might agree with PB&J."

Castiel sits up and lets their legs glide over the bed frame to the floor. Dean tries to ignore their muscular runner's legs. "Here. Drink something first," he orders and hands them a glass of water.

The angel brings it up to their lips. They look like a baby trying it for the first time. Too late Dean realises that this is most likely the case. Water runs out of their lips and down their throat, leaving them in a wet tank top.

"Shit! Sorry, I didn't think that through," Dean says and pats them dry with a napkin.

"My apologies, Dean," Castiel says. 

"Don't mention it," Dean replies, scolding himself inwardly. "Let me explain to you how to eat before you choke on that thing and when that is working we'll try the drinking again, okay?"

The angel nods and a slight blush works its way up their neck to their cheeks. Castiel looks adorable.

Dean fidgets with the hem of his shirt while he watches them swallow food for the very first time. At least at eating, they are a natural.

"Sorry about earlier," Dean says, "about the whole soulmate thing. It kinda freaked me out."

"I understand," Castiel replies, "That's why I didn't mention it before."

"You knew?"

Castiel raises their head to look Dean straight into his eyes, a tender smile playing on their lips. "The second I laid my hand on you."


	17. Chapter 17

Dean runs a hand over his face. "You knew and you didn't tell me?"

Castiel's face turns back to their stoic countenance and Dean feels them retreating from him. "You had enough to deal with, Dean. First, being back from Hell, then ... the mishap while reconstructing your body, and I knew that Alastair would come after you sooner or later. I hoped that we would get to know each other better in the meantime, that you would learn to trust me."

Dean chuckles. "Trust doesn't just happen, Cass. You need to work for that," he says and sits down next to them.

"I understand. I am sorry."

Dean sighs. "Don't apologise, man. You helped me a lot. If you hadna stayed, I most likely would be back in the pit already. It's just ... a lotta get used to, that's all." Castiel nods but stays silent. "So, I guess we have some time to kill. Wanna tell me a bit about ya?"

Dean suppresses a giggle that's working its way up his throat. This is for sure the strangest situation in which he ever used that pick-up line.

"There is not much to say. Our father created me shortly after the universe was born," the angel replies as if it were the most normal thing to say.

"And, what? You were just hanging around all the time, doing nothin'?"

"No, of course not. I helped to keep his creations in order and after he created mankind I was sent to earth to watch you evolve."

"Just watch?"

"Basically. We got orders from time to time of course, but most of them were just dealing with demons and such or guarding prophets and a chosen few."

"So, I'm one of those? A chosen one?" Dean asks, his voice careful and guarded.

"You are much more than that, Dean. Heaven has never seen such a rescue mission before."

Dean falls silent for a long moment. "Does that mean ...? It must be really bad then. I ... I screwed things up big time?"

"It's not your fault, Dean. You resisted for _so_ long. We were too late. That's all."

"Why do you sound as if you were wrapping me up in cotton wool?" Dean chuckles and gives Castiel a nudge with his elbow. 

For the first time since Dean met them, Castiel smiles widely, gummy and warm. Dean's heart skips a beat or two. Platonic soulmates, his arse.

Dean knows why Castiel turned away from him earlier. The son of a bitch is feeling it too. But the angel wouldn’t say it, fearing Dean's reaction. Or are they afraid of falling in love with him? A lot of 'good Christians' are homo- and transphobic. Is Heaven on their side after all? Anna was cool with him, though. More than cool.

Dean gets up from the bed and tries to push away the memory of Anna moaning his name. To get his mind off all the contradicting thoughts fighting in his head, he rummages around in his duffle bag and pulls out sweats, a teeshirt and a hoodie. He throws them at Castiel who thanks him with a silent nod, his smile already faltered and disappeared.

"Come to the kitchen when you're ready," Dean says clipped and leaves his room, not waiting for an answer. 

Outside, he leans against the wall and tries to think straight. It's simply physical attraction. How many cis guys did he ignore to protect himself, even though they had flirted with him? He could push his yearning away then, he can do it now, too.

But then unbidden images flood his mind. Of giving quick hand and blow jobs in back alleys or toilet stalls without asking for anything in return, just because the guy was too hot to not embrace the opportunity of getting him off.

God, forty years of not getting laid really took a toll on him as it seems. He has never felt like this before. Shouldn't he think of anything else but sex? Why is this at the forefront of his mind? Is he trying to prove to himself that he is still hot stuff? That his detransition didn't take away his manhood?

Dean has to recognise that this is indeed the case. Sex always was a way to make himself feel better about his body. As counterintuitive as it may sound, sex didn't make him more dysphoric most of the time, while going for a swim with shorts and a shirt did. He knows it's different for other trans folks and sometimes it's the other way around for him, too. Dysphoria is an unpredictable bitch.

Having one-night stands wasn’t always plain sailing, of course. He had some shitty, even some dangerous encounters and felt terrible afterwards. But most girls were cool with him keeping on his shirt and using a dildo. Just like Anna.

It felt so good to forget about the world and the looming threat of the apocalypse for an hour and falling asleep with her in his arms. Dean may have been selfish, but Anna was too. Just two frightened souls comforting each other. Sometimes it's as simple as that.

* * *

It doesn't take long until Castiel follows him downstairs. Bobby is somewhere outside and Sam and Anna are looking for her grace, so Dean and them settle down with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. After taking a sip, Castiel looks at the mug as if it personally offended them.

"You don't like it? You don't have to drink it, man," Dean chuckles.

"I am no man, Dean," Castiel sighs.

"Yeah, you're an angel of the Lord, I know. I meant your gender, not your species."

"Oh. I understand. It still stands nonetheless. Angels aren't male or female, even though some of us prefer vessels from one gender over the other."

"So, you're basically nonbinary?" Dean wonders.

"What sets us apart from human beings is our grace, Dean. It's the essence of creation. In my grace, there lies the whole universe - past, present, future. It is female and male, anything between these two and far exceeding beyond. But I guess, in human terms: Yes, I am a nonbinary creature made of intent. But now that I lost most of my grace, who knows what I end up with? Maybe I will merge with this vessel and become male."

"Your vessel has nothin' to do with who you are, Cass. Look at me. Am I a woman or a man?"

"You are very much a man, Dean."

Dean gives him a cheeky grin. "See, told ya. Whatever happens, you're gonna be who you are now." Dean takes Castiel's mug and takes a gulp of their coffee. "Wait. What are your pronouns?"

Castiel furrows their eyebrows. "Never in my billions of years has anyone asked me that. Most address me as a man, as my vessels were mainly male in the past and it's easier for us to stick with one gender when talking about one another. But I go by _she_ , too, when I walk the earth in a female vessel. I don't mind it. It's as right or wrong as male pronouns."

"What about they or one of the new word creations? Anythin' that sounds right?"

Castiel thinks about the question and starts smiling. " _They_ sounds good. But don't worry about things like that. I do not really mind."

Dean props himself up on his forearms and leans in Castiel's direction. "It's things like this that are important. Words create reality, Cass. I thought you were a man. It's not cool to assume such things."

Castiel nods and smiles at him softly. "I'd very much liked it if you would refer to me with 'they', Dean."

"Sure thing. No problem."


	18. Chapter 18

"Well, that was a non-starter," Sam groans and slumps onto the sofa.

"We'll find it," Anna says, pulling him into a side-hug. "We're close. I can feel it. So. What have you guys been up to?" she chirps at Cass and Dean, a wide grin splitting her face.

Sam looks at his brother's flustered reaction and knits his brow together in bewilderment. Sure, Dean's behaviour last night had been a bit strange, but he was traumatised and the angel the only thing to hold on to. Sam knows that the carer in his brother often takes over when he's too close to losing his shit. And meeting and being knocked down by your torturer surely wasn't a stroll in the park.

But none of that explains why his usually composed brother is blushing like a virgin right now. Castiel looks just as distraught. What the hell is happening here!?

Sam clears his throat. "Dean, can we talk for a minute?" he asks and already heads for the door.

Dean follows him into the kitchen without meeting his eyes. "What's up, Sammy?" he speaks into the refrigerator.

Sam waits until his brother hands him a bottle of beer. He takes it with a thankful nod. "What's up with you and the angel?"

"Anna and I just had a bit of fun, Sam. She won't move in with us. Don't you worry."

Sam chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. He takes a slug of his beer. "I was talking about the other angel, Dean," he says with a wide grin. "I know you see yourself as some kind of Casanova, but two birds in one day, that's something, even for you."

Dean leans against the kitchen unit. "I don't know what you’re talkin' about."

Sam shakes his head again and rolls his eyes. "It's me, man. You can tell me anything. I won’t judge."

"There is nothing to be judged," Dean says, picking at the label of his beer bottle. "It's just something Anna mentioned. Cass and I, we seem to have a special bond or somethin'."

Sam frowns at the revelation. "Like what?"

Dean swallows hard. "Something like a soulmate."

Sam blows out a long, slow breath and purses his lips. "What kind of soulmates? Romantic, platonic, perfect war-buddies?"

Dean shrugs his shoulders in a helpless gesture. "No idea."

"What do you mean, 'no idea'? You have to feel it somehow, right?" Dean stays silent for too long to expect an answer to that question. "No matter what you're feeling, Dean, it's valid," Sam reassures him.

Dean chuckles without mirth. "Is it? Because it feels just like another part of my life is predestined and I have no say in it whatsoever."

Sam nods in understanding. "So, you _do_ feel something for him?"

"Yes, I feel something for _them_."

"Sorry, now I'm confused. You have a bond with Anna, too?"

"No, no! It's Cass' pronoun. They aren't male. We talked about it."

"Oh, cool ... Listen. No matter what they say. You always have a choice. We can get them out of here if you want to. I'm sure we can call this Uriel to pick 'em up."

Dean shakes his head. "My gut tells me there's something fishy about that guy. I do not trust him."

"So ... you want to protect Anna and Castiel from the other angels?"

His brother nods. "Cass saved me and they nearly died defending me. I trust them and I don't want to get them hurt, not more than I already did. Maybe we should move to a safe house. Just in case."

Sam nods. "Can they track you somehow?" Dean shrugs. "We should ask the angel squad then."

* * *

As it were, the only angel who could track him all the time is Castiel and as their grace is low, other angels aren't able to track them either. But Cass agreed to stay hidden under one condition only: They wanted to go back to the torture place and find out how Alastair could escape in the first place.

That's why they are crouched down in the torture chamber now while Dean, Bobby, and Sam secure the place.

Dean's eyes flicker through the room but land on the torture instruments again and again. Sam isn't sure how to read his countenance. It speaks of pain, but not only painful memories of what was done to him. Something stronger is pulling at his brother's heart and Sam hates that he isn't willing or ready to talk about it yet. He tries to be respectful, but after the events of the last week, he's growing impatient.

"It was him," Castiel says, pulling the others out of their thoughts.

"Who?" Bobby asks.

"Uriel. He opened the water pipe that washed away some of the salt."

"Are you sure?" Sam asks and Castiel nods.

"Yes, I felt his grace when I patrolled. I was thinking nothing about it then."

Dean chimes in, "Couldn't it just have been Alastair himself?"

"No," Castiel states with utter conviction, "I built the trap myself. No demon could get out of it without help from an outsider."

"But why? Why would he do that? Didn't you say you raised me for an important mission?" Castiel nods. "Maybe now would be a good time to let me in on the secret. To figure out why Uriel didn't care if I survived or not."

"Dean," Castiel says, "it's not easy to explain. And there are tests that you were meant to master before you are introduced to the mission."

"I think it's a little late for that, so, tell me," Dean all but orders.

"He won't," a rumbling voice comes from the pillar Dean hid behind just yesterday. "He's a good little soldier, you know? Following orders painstakingly. Isn't that right, Castiel?"

Cass straightens themself as if they just remembered who they really are, only their eyes giving away the inner turmoil. "Yes, sir," they say like on autopilot. Sam shoots Dean a meaningful look who gives a silent order to Bobby, the three men working like a well-oiled machine, bringing themselves into a position to safely attack if needed.

"Castiel, I had hoped to never see you again. But as I can witness, you're more of a man now. Maybe a change for the better. Don't you think?" Uriel makes fun of his fellow angel.

"If it means not serving under your command anymore, I am inclined to agree. Did you kill our brothers and sisters, too?"

"I did indeed. They weren't willing to cooperate."

"And why didn’t you try to persuade me for whatever reason you killed them?" Castiel asks, voice sharp as a knife.

"Because of your bond." Uriel looks at Dean for a long moment. "It makes you weak, Castiel. The closer you two get, the more likely it is that you would choose that abomination over the wellbeing of your own kind. I never understood why God punished humans with such a bond, but having an angel be bound like that, to a human nonetheless? You were lost the moment you went on that rescue operation."

"So, angels can't make their own choices then?" Dean asks as nonchalant as he can muster. Anger wells up inside his stomach. If not even an angel has the power to ignore a bond like this, what chance would he as a human have?

"You see, the problem with profound bonds is that the partners share feelings. Angels aren't supposed to feel. It's beyond their capacity. Having feelings leads to doubt, and doubts lead inevitably to a fall from grace." Uriel turns to Castiel. "I did you a favour, brother. Alastair's way to extract your grace was surely less painful than anything you could have done yourself. It's just a pity that I have to kill you all. I would have loved to watch you when Lucifer is finally rising."

At that sentence Castiel's whole demeanour changes. Back is the angel that terrified Dean just a few days ago back in the barn. They stand tall and fix their superior's gaze with their own.

"No. You won't kill us _all_ ," Castiel smirks fiendishly. "And I wonder how you want to manage to smite us all without laying a finger on Sam."

The other men may not know the meaning behind their words but they react to it nonetheless. Everyone is crowding around the younger Winchester, Sam shielding as much of them as possible.

Uriel chuckles in amusement. "This is not the end!" he huffs and the next second, he's gone.


	19. Chapter 19

"Cass?"

Dean looks at the angel who falters visibly right in front of them. He feels Sam's worried gaze flicker between him and Castiel and hears that Bobby moves to leave the room, most likely to check on Anna who waited in the car.

"Cass?" Dean repeats, but the name doesn't seem to register.

He lays his hand on the angel's shoulder. Castiel looks at him with narrow eyes. "I can't protect you like this," they mumble, "We need to find Anna's grace."

"We need to get you to a safe place first," Dean says with resolve. "I won't let that ass lay a finger on you," he says, "... or anyone."

Sam rolls his eyes at the add-on. Can his brother be honest about his feelings just once? He may care about all their wellbeing, yes. But the way Dean's fingers are twitching, it is obvious that he has the impulse to hug Castiel and he doesn't allow himself to do it. Stubbornness, your name is Dean.

"We need to prevent the seals from being broken," Castiel says matter-of-factly. 

"I don't care about the damn seals, Cass. Let Lucifer get out of the cage. We'll put'm back in."

"Dean, you don’t understand," Cass tries to reason with him.

"No, Cass, _you_ don't understand. Until you're fully restored, no-one of us will set a foot outside the safe house for anything, but getting Anna's grace back. And when she has healed you, we will see what we can do about the whole crap. But not a second earlier. Capice?"

The angel looks at him in confusion. A rather cute look, Dean thinks. "I'm not sure why you speak Italian with me, but yes, I understand. I'm a good little soldier as you just learnt."

Dean's face glitches into sadness for a split second before he schools it again. Sam feels the urge to shake reason into his big brother. But he knows that Dean needs to reach the logical conclusion to his feelings at his own pace.

"Let's go," Sam says, "we have a four-hour drive ahead of us and we need to make a supply run, too. Five people don't just feed themselves."

Dean nods silently and tugs on Castiel's hand when they don't move. "Come on, you need some rest."

The angel follows the brothers quietly and soon enough, they are slipping in and out of sleep, their head leant against the window of the front passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean looks at them from his place behind the wheel every now and then. There is no-one who could judge him for doing so as the others are driving in Bobby's car. 

"You can lie down, you know?" he mumbles.

Castiel opens their sleepy eyes and looks at him for a long moment, then they nod. Before Dean can pull the car out to let them climb onto the back seat, the angel lies down, cautiously cushioning their head on Dean's thigh.

Dean twitches in surprise and thinks about protesting. But that somehow feels wrong. He grabs the steering wheel a little tighter. No matter what, he won’t run his fingers through the angel's messy hair, as inviting as the already half-sleeping angel may look.

"Thank you," Castiel murmurs before gliding into dreamland. Dean smiles down at them. He would be content to drive like this for the rest of his life.

* * *

"Could I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please?" Cass asks and Dean smiles at them from behind the opened kitchen cabinet.

"Sure, but we'll have dinner in about 45 minutes," he replies, dividing the groceries into a pile with things he needs as fixings for his homemade bacon cheeseburgers and the stuff that needs to be put away.

"Okay. I can wait," the angel says saddened and turns to walk back to the living room.

"That's not what I meant," Dean sighs loudly, "If you're hungry, you need to eat. Come on, I'll show you how to make one so that you're not dependent on one of us if you're hungry."

Castiel watches him intensely while he pulls the three ingredients out of the cupboard. "Fetch me a butter knife," Dean orders and points to the cutlery drawer. He puts a plate on the worktop and turns back to the angel who is staring at the silverware. Dean chuckles. "It's the one with the blunt, rounded point."

"It's not a point when it's round, Dean," Castiel objects.

The hunter chuckles softly. "Just bring it over here and we'll see if you murder the bread with it or not."

Castiel walks over, the butter knife warily in their hand and their eyebrows pinched together in an intense frown. Dean gives them an encouraging smile.

"It's child's play," he promises and nudges them with the elbow. He patiently explains to Castiel how it's done. What a strange thing, showing an angel of the Lord something as mundane as preparing a sandwich. But the awkwardness was worth it when he witnesses Cass' proud smile as they take the first bite of their very first self-made food.

"Good?" Dean asks.

"More than good," Castiel answers chewing, a little bit of jelly running down their chin, "These make me very happy."

And damn! Their joyful snicker shoots confetti sparkles all over Dean's insides. What the hell is the angel doing to him?

"I thought, angels don't have feelings," he says, wipes a wet cloth over the already clean worktop, and tries to get rid of the giddiness spreading to his limbs. 

"I never had," Castiel says, still munching on their PB&J. They swallow the bite and grin at Dean with a gummy smile. "That was until I met you."

The angel looks so very pleased with this development and Dean can't stop the swarm of butterflies in his stomach that he hasn't felt since he saw Cassie for the last time.

 _Cassie_. Oh, the irony! Is this a heavenly joke? _Cass_ , his first love and maybe, just maybe, his last.


	20. Chapter 20

"You really wanna do this?" Dean asks, watching the glowing vial with Anna's grace in her hand. It had taken them two weeks to finally get hold of it.

"Isn't that why we put all the effort in? To save your boyfriend?" she teases softly, her smile warm and tender.

"Just because we have this bond, doesn't mean they are my boyfriend," Dean says, his cheeks betraying his words.

"Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of, Dean. Their vessel is sexy and they are a pretty cool person. They're well respected in angelic circles. I knew I heard their name before. They are loyal to a fault and a war hero, actually."

"Is this meant to impress me? I may be my father's perfect little soldier, but that doesn't mean that this is what I'm looking for in a partner."

"What are you looking for then?" Anna's voice isn't teasing anymore, only genuinely interested.

Dean doesn't even know why he is answering. Something about this angel turned human just makes him open up. Maybe it's the prospect of never seeing her again when she's back in her full grace. She will most likely not stick around. Why would she?

"Someone who understands and accepts my way of life. Someone I don't need to hide a part of me from just so that they are with me. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who makes me want to come back from a hunt alive. Someone hot, of course."

Anna smiles. Of course, he has to joke to not make these confessions sound as serious as they are.

"And which of these boxes don't they tick?"

Dean falls silent for a long moment. "Are you cupid or what?"

"No," she laughs, "that's another battalion. But, Dean, how often were you truly in love?"

"Really? Just once. She couldn't ... It was just too hard. She knew but she ... God, I'm too messed up for a relationship."

He brushes his hand over his face. Why would anyone ever want to be with him?

"No, you're not. I have never been in a relationship. Not really. I always fall for the bad guys." She winks at him. "I'm smart enough to not let it go further with them than a night or two, but that doesn't mean that I'm not longing for something more serious. And seeing Castiel with you gives me hope. It gives me hope that I can be who I was meant to be _and_ experience what I was looking for when I chose to become a human."

"So, you really wanna risk it all for them?"

"And for you, Dean. I've seen your pain and I ... I know what happened in Hell."

Dean stares at her for a long moment then says quickly, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"I understand," Anna smiles at him weakly with sadness in her eyes, "but I think that after all that you went through and all that is still ahead, you deserve to be happy, to not have to go through this alone."

Dean huffs a laugh. "Happiness? That's an alien concept for a Winchester. That's not what I was born for."

"Who says that?" Anna asks gently. 

Dean has no answer to that question. It's somehow ingrained in him from an early age. Happiness is for others.

* * *

"How are you feeling, buddy?" Dean asks. He tries to hide his concern but is failing miserably. 

"I'm all right," Castiel says, still lying on the sofa where Anna just healed him with her reestablished grace. "There's just ..."

Dean's brow knits together in a slight panic. Anna puts her hands on Castiel's temples and her eyes grow wide. "What the heck? This monster!" she shouts.

"What!?" Dean, Sam, and Bobby ask simultaneously. 

Dean nearly vibrates out of his skin. Sam lays his hand on his shoulder. Dean can't even care about the fact that his distress is that obvious.

"Jimmy. He's gone," Castiel whispers, regret forged deep into his features.

"Who's Jimmy?" Sam asks.

"My vessel. It is ... was his body," Castiel explains.

"Gone? You mean like in _dead_?" Dean breathes. 

Castiel nods. "Alastair must have killed him. Everything that keeps this body alive is my grace now." The angel sits up frantically and looks around in agitation. "Where is my trenchcoat?" they all but shout.

Everyone stares at them in confusion. Ever since the morning after their fight with Alastair, Castiel wore Dean's clothing, something that pleases the hunter more than he is ready to admit. 

"Did you wash it?" Cass asks, the question not directed at anyone specific.

"The coat and the suit, yes," Dean answers, "The shirt was beyond saving. Why?" Castiel doesn't answer, just stares at him with angry, no, desperate eyes. "I ... I get it for ya," Dean says and turns to run to the Impala where the items in question are on the backseat and in his own suit bag.

He feels tension building up inside of his chest. Does Castiel put the blame for Jimmy's death on him or themself?

It was all going so well between them. They got closer over the last few days. Dean showed and explained to the near graceless angel the bits and bobs of living as a human. Cass shared stories of human history with him, livid and colourful as only one who witnessed it can tell them. They watched movies together, their hands lingering in the same bowl of popcorn.

Dean could make the angel laugh and that somehow soothed all the rough edges that the last weeks had cut into him. There had been long looks and meaningful silences between them, more blushed cheeks than Dean dared to admit, and accidental brushes of hands and accompanying smiles.

Dean tries to ignore the pain threatening to bring his heart to a stop. Castiel is an angel for heaven's sake. Now that they are back on full fuel, it's just a question of time until they leave. Most likely they just don't want to do that in Dean's hoody full of holes and his stupid jeans that hug their arse so perfectly.

Dean shakes his head to chase his thoughts away. It's not as if he ever wanted to start something with Cass. It was all innocent flirting while the poor angel was recovering from what happened to them, just because they had the misfortune to be stuck in Dean's orbit. Maybe it's better that way. Dean needs to believe that.

He shuts the door of the Impala with a loud bang, trenchcoat over one arm and suit bag in the other. When Anna and Cass are gone, he really needs to go hunting. Sitting in the safe house watching over Castiel like a baby didn't do him any good. It doesn't matter what Anna told him. There is no use in hoping for things that are just not meant for him to have.


	21. Chapter 21

"You're not goin' anywhere like that," Bobby orders and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Why not? It's just a simple salt'n'burn."

"Your head isna on your neck, son. You get yourself killed. Let Sammy do it and we have a talk."

Dean groans but lets go of the door handle. A father/son conversation is the last thing he was looking forward to and he has a hunch where this one is going to end.

He knows he shouldn't worry. Bobby was pretty chilled when he came out as trans, why should he make a fuss about him being bi? But maybe that's not even the point.

Bobby puts a bottle of beer on the table and settles with his own on a chair opposite. The message is clear and with a sigh, Dean sinks into the chair and takes a big slug.

"So ... you and the angel?"

"Bobby!" Dean groans.

His uncle raises both hands to appease him. "I'm not givin' you a talk, I just ...," he trails off.

"What?" Dean asks exasperated.

"Just have never seen ya that happy around anyone ever, that's all," Bobby says and takes a sip of his beer. "And never as pissed when someone left, not even yer old man."

Dean picks at the label of his beer bottle and looks at it as if he had never seen condensation before. 

"Just wanted to give ya my blessing, in case ya feel ya need it," Bobby says and Dean chuckles. He closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head, a soft smile curling his lips upwards.

But it doesn't stay long on his face. "They're gone now, important angel business. I doubt they'll come back unless Heaven needs me for a mission."

Bobby hums in acknowledged. "Any idea what they're doin' up there?"

Dean shakes his head no. "Going after Uriel, I suppose. But they wouldna even tell me why Uriel left us alone when Sammy protected us. Just said that we should stay together. Oh, shit!" Dean jumps off his chair, already on the way out of the kitchen. 

"The house is warded against angels. Calm down," Bobby calls after him.

Dean turns on the threshold. "But what if they are after Sammy?"

Bobby pushes his lower jaw to the side as he so often does when he evaluates the risk of a mission.

"Sam!" he shouts and after a moment, the younger Winchester appears in the doorway.

The two men at the kitchen table scrutinise him and Sam looks back in befuddlement. "Do I have something on my face?"

"We're just wonderin' what makes you so special, boy," Bobby replies.

* * *

"No!" The single word vibrates through the room and Bobby and Sam look up from the old, leather-bound lores they stuck their noses in.

Dean swallows hard and closes the book in his hands with a loud _thump_. "I think I got it ... and you won't like it."

Bobby gives him the look. It says, _Boy, you're too smart for your own good_ , and Dean hates it.

"Angels need vessels to walk the earth, right?" Everybody nods. "And Lucifer is an angel, so if they manage to break all the seals and free him, they need someone to fill. Anna told me that every angel connects to a bloodline, a family that can hold their presence easily compared to others."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with me?" Sam asks frowning, the conclusion slowly creeping up on him.

"What if you're the perfect vessel for Lucifer?" Dean questions and the words feel like lead on his tongue, heavy and poisonous.

"But then, Uriel should have protected you, too. We are brothers," Sam argues.

"He's right. Doesna make sense to sacrifice you," Bobby chimes in.

Dean slumps into the chair and runs his hands over his face. He chuckles without mirth. "I guess, I'm another angel's meat suit. And ... that son of a bitch!"

"Who?"

"Castiel. They know. They always knew and they didn't say a word!" Dean clenches his jaws together. He's angry and feels betrayed. Why didn't they tell him? He thought they had connected, had started to trust one another and now that. 

"Cass, swing your feathery ass right over here!" he nearly screams into the room. Bobby and Sam share a meaningful look. They know that Dean is desperate. They know he is hurt. It would frighten Dean how bad he became at hiding his feelings ever since that damn angel walked into his life, but he's beyond caring.

A whoosh of angel wings and Castiel stands behind him. Dean turns around and takes in the blood on their trenchcoat and the angel blade in their hand.

"Did I interrupt somethin'?" he spits out and, yeah, maybe he feels a bit guilty about it, but not enough to let it show.

"My people are at war," Castiel says matter-of-factly, not a pinch of emotion in their voice and Dean takes a step back as the tightness in his chest grows rapidly at the sight of Castiel's burning blue eyes. It looks like Anna's grace in the vial and it for sure is Castiel's own glowing through the eyes of their vessel. 

"What do you want?" Castiel booms and it makes the loaded bookshelves and the wooden table vibrate.

"Noth ... nothing," Dean stammers with widened eyes. All anger has left him. All he feels is awe, but not the good kind that makes your gut flip because someone is perfect in one way or another. No. It's the gut-wrenching awe that makes you want to fall on your knees and puke your heart out.

"Never call me if not necessary, **Dean** ," Castiel says sharply, the use of his name sounding like a threat. How often in the last two weeks did they say it softly as if it were a prayer, a caress?

Tears prickle treacherously in Dean's eyes, but the angel wouldn't see them anyway as they are already gone.

Dean's knees give out and he plummets to the floor. He wishes he never met them, wishes to be back in hell where he for sure belongs. Because he doesn't want any of this. He doesn't want to be a vessel for some frigging angel and he for sure doesn't want to be bound to one by fate or by something shitty as feelings.


	22. Chapter 22

The next time Dean sees them again is in the bathroom. One second he's peeling his new binder off, huffing and puffing against the tight, unforgiving fabric, the next he stares into those blue eyes in the mirror, void of visible grace, but still burning holes into the back of his head, so intense their gaze.

Dean snatches the towel from the rack and covers his front with it as his clothes are behind Castiel and accordingly out of reach.

"Don't do that," he says, still a little startled by the angel's sudden presence.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says in that low voice that makes the hunter's stomach always make a strange flip. But he won't let them have that this time. He refuses to be the smitten teenager he somehow morphed into over the last month.

"You think you can just pop in whenever you like? I didn't call you," Dean hisses and Castiel, angel of the Lord and stupid idiot that he is, frowns at him as if his sentences were a riddle he had to solve.

"I thought you wanted me to come. I'm off duty now," they say and their voice is laced with concern.

At a second, more calm look Dean sees the tiredness in their eyes and the strain in their shoulders. It may be subtle, but Castiel really looks like a soldier tired from fighting.

"Is something wrong with your grace?" Dean asks, worry overwhelming the anger still curling in his stomach for a moment.

"No. Why?"

Dean shrugs his shoulders. "You said that angels don't get tired, so, why off duty times?"

Castiel nods. "We're waiting for orders from a new general, now that Uriel is dead."

"So, you got that son of a bitch."

"Don't refer to my father like that, Dean."

Dean guffaws at that. "It's a figure of speech, Cass. I don't mean that God ... Nevermind. Could you hand me my pyjamas, please?" Cass does as asked. Dean motions them to turn around.

Castiel squints and tilts their head to the side. "I know what your body looks like, Dean. I rebuilt it. It may have changed a little due to the cream you're using, but ..."

Dean holds a hand up to stop them from speaking. "That doesn't give you the right to look at me."

Castiel lowers their gaze to their shoes and nods. Then they turn away and leave Dean to his nightly ritual. Dean looks at the man in the mirror. Are there really signs for the testosterone already working?

He brushes his fingers over the skin of his face. It feels a little rougher, thicker. He didn’t really pay attention to it which is strange. The first time around, he watched every little detail, celebrated the first hairs on his chin with pie.

"I could make your facial hair grow a little faster," Castiel says. It may not be much, but ..."

The prospect should probably make him happy, but instead, a rush of anger flares up in his chest. "Why? Why would you do that after treating me like shit?" Sometimes the deep routed anger in Dean just floods the space around him. This is one of those moments.

"Dean." 

How many layers can a simple word have? Castiel sounds soft and scolding at the same time.

Dean braces himself on the washbasin. Every interaction with the angel gives him whiplash, internally and externally. He is angry and at the same time worried for them. He wants Castiel to back off and to wrap him in their arms. It's all so confusing, too much, and too little.

Dean turns around. He didn’t realise that Cass just did the same. They are so close now. Too close.

"Cass, we've talked about this. Personal space," he presses out and grips the basin behind him tightly because otherwise his body might just go on autopilot and do something stupid like kissing these chapped lips. But if the angel is here, he wants to know if his suspicions are true. He didn’t mean to have this conversation in nightwear but so be it.

"My apologies," Cass says with a nod and takes a step back.

Dean squeezes around them and walks to his room. He's not sure if he wants the angel to follow or not. His mind is a mess. Be that as it might, he needs to focus, channel his anger into getting the information he deserves.

He slumps on his bed and busies himself with draping the blanket around him, pretending not to see the angel hovering over the threshold.

"Dean?" It's soft-spoken, nearly shy, a far cry from the avenging angel that made him nearly wet his clothes just a day ago.

"Don't Dean me. I want answers and if you're not willing to give them to me, just fuck off," he snarls. With satisfaction, he realises that his voice really is a little deeper.

"I'm not sure if I understand what you mean," Cass says stepping closer.

"Is Sam Lucifer's vessel?" The angel stops still and freezes to the spot, staring at him with wide eyes and mouth agape. "I take that as a 'yes'. So, who am I supposed to play body donor for?"

Castiel squirms under his gaze. "I can't tell you," they all but whisper.

"Can't or don't want to?"

"It won't change anything," Castiel insists.

"It'll change **everything** , Cass. Because if I can't trust you then you can just buzz off forever. I'm not a puppet. If you don't want to share with the group - fine. But don't expect anything from me. Then you're just like the other asshole angels who play games with humanity in the name of Heaven and Hell."

Castiel opens their mouth and closes it again. The internal struggle is written in their features like shadows, their eyes unsteady and fixed on anything that isn't Dean.

They stand like this for minutes and Dean watches the drama unfolding in front of him, in their eye tightening, their frowns, their twitching lips, and wrinkling nose, the nervous movements of their fingers, and the bobbing of their torso.

"If you need more time, just leave. I'm tired. If we'll never see each other again - have a great life," Dean ends the spectacle and lies down, his back turned to the angel.

"I'm sorry, Dean," they say and flutter away.

Dean breathes out through his mouth, half sigh and half sob. _Me, too_ , he thinks, _Me, too._


	23. Chapter 23

Hannah finds them distraught and pacing on an empty playground in the middle of the night. They have served for millennia together, she always trusted their orders. She might even call them her friend. Seeing them like this, tearing their hair out, looking lost, fills her with unease. She worried for them since the day they came back together from Dean's rescue mission. 

Something fundamental changed that day, but Hannah lacks the words for it. It was the way Castiel didn't let anyone touch the righteous man, insisted on rebuilding him alone, carried him in their arms like a child rescued from flames, protective, somehow even deeper than that.

Castiel fought for letting him wake up in bed, but Uriel insisted to put Dean back into the casket. Their superior, of course, got the final word, but Hannah saw Castiel rebel for the first time when they slipped a silver lighter in Dean's pocket before burying him six feet under, keeping guard until his hand reached out of his grave into the fresh air.

Hannah saw their distress when it turned out that Dean was not one capable of hearing and understanding angels. She had been among humans long enough to recognise the sadness creeping up on her friend, but also the resolve when they decided to take on a vessel for the first time in more than a century. She saw their excitement when they were called to the barn and even though they were meant to welcome Dean together with other angels from the garrison, she let them go on their own, sensing that they needed to be with the man without interruption.

She knew that there was something between the two and she thought it was for Heaven's sake alone, but now, she isn't so sure anymore.

"Castiel?" she asks softly. The other angel stops still in their track and turns to face her. Their features are distorted in pain, but it isn't physical. "Oh, Castiel," she repeats.

"He knows," Cass presses out. "At least enough to figure it out. He asked me to tell him, but when I didn't answer, he sent me away."

Angels aren't capable of crying and still, their eyes are glazed over and Hannah wonders if the time on low grace gifted her friend with more human things than a love for peanut butter sandwiches which they have mourned ever since they came back to Heaven. 

"You have your orders, Castiel. He will understand."

Cass shakes their head and looks down at their hands. "He won't. He's stubborn and resentful, I fear. I'm not sure if he would ever forgive me."

"We are angels. We don't seek forgiveness," Hannah states matter-of-factly, "We do the right thing and humanity will have to accept this."

"Dean isn't just a part of humanity, Hannah. He's ... he's _my_ human. We have a profound bond."

Hannah covers her mouth with her hand, trying to keep in the surprised gasp. This explains everything. "But how?" she whispers.

"Our father must have a plan for us. Only he can forge a bond between an angel and a man. We angels have no soul and yet, I have a soulmate. It must mean something, must be important, and if I mess this up, my ... relationship with Dean, it may never come to fruition. What am I supposed to do?"

Castiel, a warrior of God, defender of humankind and creation, looks so small and it isn't just the vessel, compressing their form so much that no one but the angels and demons can sense their greatness.

"If our father really decided to interfere, he will give you the strength and the wisdom to make the right decisions. It's a blessing, Castiel. And no matter what you do, I will defend you and have your back, my friend."

A small smile washes over Castiel's features. They let out a sigh of relief and take Hannah's hand. "Thank you."

* * *

Dean wakes up in the early morning hours. The first sunbeams are still too weak to creep through the curtains, but he can feel the presence of Castiel sitting on the foot of his bed. He orders his treacherous heart to keep still. This doesn't have to mean anything.

"Cass. Still creepy," he murmurs.

Something unexpected happens. The angel chuckles, warm and deep, the sound shooting up Dean’s spine and clenching deliciously around his heart.

"I won't apologise. You're beautiful in your sleep, with all the sorrow washed off your face."

"I told you that there is nothing beautiful about me," he grumbles, just to not let the words sink in too deep. In the end, he might believe them.

He feels a hand on his thigh, right where the angel healed him all those weeks ago. It sends goosebumps over his skin.

Dean swallows hard and clears his throat. "Why did you come?"

There is this soft chuckle again and suddenly a touch on his cheek. But Dean knows that the angel is still sitting on the end. _What the actual fuck!?_

"I came to tell you the truth," Castiel says and Dean pushes himself in a sitting position, the touch of grace still tickling on his cheek.

"I'm listening."

"You are the Michael sword. The perfect vessel for the first angel ever created." There is something akin to pride in Castiel's voice. Dean doesn't understand why. 

"Am I supposed to feel flattered? Didn't Michael ban Lucifer from Heaven? Oh my god, am I supposed to fight against Sam?"

Dean’s heart is nearly beating out of his chest. No, this can't be true.

"If there were an end fight between Lucifer and Michael, yes, that would be the case. But remember, he can only possess you if you agree. But I think I know now why we have this bond, Dean. God doesn't want his children to fight. He connected us to help you withstand the request."

"Why didn't he bond you with Sam? He's the vessel for the dangerous one."

Castiel shakes their head. "Either of them is dangerous if they fight for the wrong reasons."

Dean nods in understanding. "Why did you tell me now?" he asks softly into the near darkness of the room.

"Because I realised that the feelings I harbour for you ever since I laid my hand on you in Hell, they aren't diminishing me as an angel. They do not conflict with my grace. They may make me fall, but for the right reasons," they answer quietly. 

"Feelings?" Dean nearly chokes on the single word.

"Yes, Dean, feelings. Those I shouldn't be able to experience and still do. When I got my grace back I thought that I needed to push them away as they would make me weak. But I understand now that this is not the case. Quite the opposite is true. They make me stronger because everything _means_ more."

They grab Dean’s hand in the dark and the hunter wonders if they have night vision, but gets distracted rather quickly by the tumb brushing softly over his knuckles.

"I love you, Dean," they say as if these words wouldn't bring down his world in a second, as if they mean it.

"I ..."

"You don't need to say it back, Dean."

But Dean wants to, he realises in surprise. He wants to say it, but his mouth is dry and repleted with his heart. Still, his body knows what to do.

His hands search for the angel's face in the dark and find it. As soon as he cups their cheeks, light rises from their neck, illuminating their face in the soft glow of their grace. Dean smiles at them and runs his thumbs over their perfect cheekbones. And then he kisses them softly. A sound of surprise fills the space between them and then, Castiel kisses back.

Their hands find Dean's hair and brush tenderly through it, deepening the still mellow kiss. _Tastes like heaven_ , Dean thinks and smiles into their lips. He could get used to this.


	24. Chapter 24

The sight is frightening. Lucifer stands there on the small clearing, his substitute vessel cracking and bleeding, so obviously not capable of holding his grace.

Sam swallows. He knows he needs to resist. He needs to keep up his firm 'no', but it gets more difficult with every passing minute. He doesn't want to get smashed in this heavenly war and he for sure doesn't want to get his brother killed.

But Lucifer's words penetrate his walls, sink into his mind, make him hear and see things he knows aren't real or true, but sure feel like that.

It's been going on for weeks know, weeks of running away and hiding, weeks of self-mortification because he accidentally broke the last seal, freeing Lucifer and letting all hell loose in the process.

But he knows that Dean and Castiel are at his side. They won't let him give himself over to the fallen archangel. They're strengthening his resolve, each of them holding one of his shoulders, steadying him. They've become a team by now, but this showdown feels so final that Sam slowly loses courage.

Dean may have to resist Michael's request one day, but Sam suspects that his new-found confidence, one that surpasses even his cocky brother before he went to hell, will keep him strong. Love does strange things to people, can build them up in a way a thousand wins or compliments could never achieve.

The change had been nearly instant. Not without doubt on Dean's part, of course. It's him after all. If his brother wouldn't hit him for saying something cheesy as that, Sam would say that he is glowing like a groom on his wedding day ever since he kissed the right angel.

The image sends a smile to Sam's lips. Satan's vessel or not, he is determined to see his big brother in front of the altar. It's things like this they are fighting for.

Sam straightens himself to his full height and repeats, "No!"

Lucifer chuckles darkly. "You will agree in the end," he says, blood running down his cheeks. "Deep down you want it."

"No, he doesn't," an unfamiliar voice comes from the trees and four pairs of eyes search for the source. A nerdy-looking, short guy around 40 steps out of the woods. With a wide grin, he enjoys the sheer shock on Lucifer's face.

"Father," he whispers and after a short moment of finding their wits, Castiel falls down on their knees.

The Winchesters share a look of confusion before understanding hits them and they copy the angel. Only Lucifer still stands upright, seemingly frozen in shock.

God makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. "Still my little rebel. Oh, how I missed you, Luci. It's been too long. Come here, my child," he says and pulls satan himself into his arms.

The three on the ground frown at the two men in front of them who are hugging each other tightly. They get up, brushing off the dirt on their clothes.

God let's go of Lucifer after a long moment and pats him on the back, just like a proud father would. Then, he turns to the spectators.

"Castiel, Dean, so good to see you two together. Finally! I waited way too long since creating your soul, Dean. I should have never allowed the angels to pick the succession of family souls like lottery numbers. But they were so bored at that time."

He shrugs his shoulders with a grin on his face and turns to Sam, cupping his cheeks with both hands. "I knew you would be strong enough to withstand my little lubber here."

All four look at the bearded man, questioning his sanity or maybe their own.

"You are God?" Sam is the first to break the silence.

"Yes," God grins, "but you can call me Chuck."

"Father, where have you been all the time? We needed you," Castiel presses out.

God shrugs. "Here and there, enjoying life among my favourite creation. I knew the universe was in good hands."

"No, it wasn't," Dean snarls, "Your angels fought a civil war, demons are wandering free, devilish creatures destroy lives. You enjoyed life!? Bastard!"

"Dean!" Castiel scolds him and takes his hand. "This is the Eternal you're talking to. You should show him some respect."

"Respect? He set the gambling table and buzzed off."

"I gave you free will," Chuck retorts.

"No, you didn't. Happenstance isn't true free will. You may not have played with us like muppets, but you still set us on our tracks to somehow let destiny find a way to your amusement."

"Dean, Dean, Dean. After all I've done for you, you're still angry at me," Chuck says softly. "Why?"

"Why? Seriously!?" Dean yells. This time it's Sam who tries to soften his temper. He grabs his arm, keeping him from bolting forward and doing something stupid like fistfighting God themself.

"Na, na, na," Chuck says in Lucifer's direction, the satan trying to steal himself away. "No running away this time, my child. Dean is right. It's time to truly give you free will and you never had it in the first place. You were always set to fall, to restore the balance that disappeared when I banished my sister."

"Sister?" Dean whispers to Castiel. 

"Long story," they whisper back.

"It's time to go back to Heaven and sit on my throne again. All this human living got boring over time. And it seems, some things slipped my attention that really shouldn't have."

Chuck smiles warmly at them. "I love you all very much and I will set you free, giving you a fair, new start. Luci, I'd love to discuss Heaven and Hell business over lunch. Are you free?"

The fallen angel nods in befuddlement. Chuck touches his cheek and the skin of his vessel heals in the blink of an eye. "Go ahead. You're forgiven. Heaven's gates are open for you," Chuck says and the sound of Lucifer's wings flaps through the air.

"Sam," Chuck turns to the younger hunter. "You're tired. What do you say I send you right into your bed? Jessica is waiting for you."

"Jess?" Sam's eyes grow wide.

"I resurrected her. Go on. Live your happy apple pie live. You deserve it after all the pain."

A wide grin grows on Sam's face. "Thank you. I ..."

Chuck raises his hand. "I know. Go. Be fruitful and multiply."

Dean laughs out loud. Sammy's facial expression is just too delicious right before he disappears.

"Dean. I feel a deep sadness in you. And anger. So much anger. Why is that?"

Dean's face falls instantly. Most of the time he forgets that he wasn't born the man he always strived to be.

"Oh, I see," Chuck says, "your body. When I created the first human, they were one being, holding everything. Every gender, not just the two commonly known, and every possible expression of those. They were perfect. I don't remember why I split them. I think, I hoped for it to be less difficult as balancing all those nuances wasn't easy on them. I hoped, they would complement each other. And in many ways they did. 

"But the poles weren't as simply cut as I thought. That's why it sometimes happens that the soul doesn't seem to fit the body it lives in.

"I believe there is beauty in every expression of humanity. Humankind surpassed my wildest dreams, so much more diverse and wondrous than I realised. And even when I believe that you, Dean, are beautiful and perfect, I understand that you disagree. It was never my intention to hurt you. I can fix that. Do you prefer the built of Elijah Wood or Jason Momoa?"

Dean's eyes widen. How does Chuck know his biggest celebrity crushes? Oh, right, he is the Almighty.

"Take your time," Chuck offers.

Dean looks at Castiel and thinks of their hands running over his body, their warm, adoring eyes rooming over him whenever he feels good enough to be fully naked with them. He thinks of their noises when he makes love to them and their curiosity and patience whenever dysphoria washes over him, often in the most inconvenient moments.

"Neither," he says with a firm voice, still looking into Castiel’s warm eyes that tighten slightly at the answer. "I only want my old body back, the one I went to Hell with. This is who I am and I am proud of what I achieved."

"How come?" Chuck asks.

Dean takes Castiel's hand in his. "What makes me a man isn't my body. I am so much more than flesh and bones. I am a man because you created me to be one. An angel once recited a psalm to me, spoke it into my skin when they thought I was sleeping. It will be burnt into my mind until the day I die."

"Which one?" God asks with surprise lacing his voice.

" _I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well._ "

Castiel looks at him with tears brimming their eyes. "You heard?"

Dean smiles. "And listened."

"So be it," Chuck says and claps his hands. Dean feels a lightness on his chest, the muscles back where they belong, and a scruff on his face when he brushes away the tears that fall unbidden.

"See you around," Chuck says and walks past them.

"Hey," Dean shouts after him, his voice rough and low. A shiver works through him, but it isn't caused by God turning around, looking a little miffed.

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. "You gave all of us what we wanted. But what about Castiel? Don't they deserve happiness, too, a reward for all the fighting, all the sacrifices?"

Chuck gives him a soft smile. "I made sure that they have what their grace desires a long time ago, Dean," he says and gives him a wink before he strolls back into the woods.

Dean gazes back at him until he disappears behind the trees. The hunter turns his eyes to his angel.

"What did he mean?" he asks, fear tightening his chest mercilessly. Will Castiel leave his life now? Going back to Heaven, full of grace and void of feelings?

But Castiel smiles at him warmly. "You," they say, "he meant you."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I hope you enjoyed this little story of mine. If you liked my writing, feel free to check out my other stories and one-shots (mostly Destiel and Malec).
> 
> Thank you for your kudos, reading, and commenting. 💚💙
> 
> Take care,  
> Sabine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. 💙 Let me know what you think.💚


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